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I 


A  SELECTION 


FROM  THE 


WRITINGS  OF  JOSEPH  HALL,  D.  D, 

;  j  t  7 

SOMETIME  CHAPLAIN  TO  KING  JAMES  THE  FIRST  J  BI8HOF 
OF  EXETER,  OF  NORWICH,  ETC. 


WITH 


OBSERVATIONS  OF  SOME  SPECIALITIES  IN  HIS  LIFE? 


WRITTEN  WITH  HIS  OWN  HAND. 


EDITED  BY 

A.  HUNTINGTON  CLAPP. 


NEW-YORK: 

ROBERT  CARTER  AND  BROTHERS. 

1  8  50. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/selectionfromwri00hall_1 


608 

H  1+6 

CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Editor’s  Preface, . v 

List  of  Unusual  Words,  etc., . ix 

Observations  of  some  Specialities  of  Divine  Provi¬ 
dence  in  the  Life  of  Joseph  Hall,  Bishop  of  Nor¬ 
wich,  etc., . xi 

Meditations  and  Vows,  Divine  and  Moral  : 

Century  First, . 3 

Century  Second, . 41 

Century  Third, . 82 

Holt  Observations, . 143 

Characterisms  of  Virtues  and  Vices: 

Table  of  Contents, . 180 

Premonition, . 181 

Book  First, — Of  Virtues, . 183 

Book  Second, — Of  Vices, . 208 

Heaven  upon  Earth:  or  of  True  Peace  and  Tran¬ 
quillity  of  Mind  : 

Analysis, . 241 

Epistles  : 

Contents, . 310 

Epistle  First, . 311 

Epistle  Second, . 314 

Epistle  Third, . 319 

Epistle  Fourth, . 323 

Epistle  Fifth, . 327 

Epistle  Sixth, . 330 


■ 

4 

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i 

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I 


, 


EDITOR’S  PREFACE. 


The  Editor  of  this  volume  has  but  little  to  say,  in  pre¬ 
senting  it  to  the  reader.  The  merits  of  Bishop  Hall’s  wri¬ 
tings  are  too  apparent  to  need  a  trumpeter,  and  the  faults 
of  his  style — which  are  the  faults  of  the  best  writers  of  his 
age,  and  not  of  ours— will  not  be  lessened  by  any  attempt 
at  extenuation.  Let  them  rather  stand  side  by  side,  to  of¬ 
fer  their  own  encouragements  and  warnings  to  the  writers 
who  come  after. 

The  Editor  believes,  with  one  who  has  gone  before  him 
in  a  similar  work,  that  ‘  few  men  with  pen  in  hand  are 
more  innocently’ — and  he  will  add,  more  profitably — ‘em¬ 
ployed,  than  he  who  is  engaged  in  re-editing  a  good  old 
book.’  Bacon  must  have  had  his  eye  on  our  times  when 
he  said,  ‘The  opinion  of  plenty  is  among  the  causes  of 
want,  and  the  great  quantity  of  books  maketh  a  show  ra¬ 
ther  of  superfluity  than  lack;  which  surcharge,  neverthe¬ 
less,  is  not  to  be  remedied  by  making  no  more  books,  but 
by  making  more  good  books,  which,  as  the  serpent  of  Mo¬ 
ses,  might  devour  the  serpents  of  the  enchanters.’ 

A  good  book  is  here  offered  to  the  public. 

The  Scholar  who  reads  it,  will  find  a  style  which  has 
called  forth  the  admiration  of  the  learned  and  judicious, 
from  the  time  of  Hall’s  earlitest  publications  to  the  present 
day,  and  which  has  justly  ranked  him  among  the  best  of 


VI 


editor’s  preface. 


English  authors.  In  precision,  terseness,  and  condensed 
energy  of  style,  he  has,  perhaps,  no  superior.  Even  his 
•  faults  may  teach  to  some  of  the  diffuse  and  pointless  wri¬ 
ters  of  these  days,  a  valuable  lesson. 

The  Christian  who  reads  it,  will  find,  on  every  page,  the 
glowing  fruits  of  a  ripe  religious  experience ;  food  for 
thought ;  and  ‘  aids  to  reflection,’  which  shall  tend  to  build 
up  his  spirit,  and  fit  him  for  life’s  duties  and  for  heaven. 

It  is  an  evil  sign  of  the  times,  that  while  our  Christian 
libraries  are  flooded  with  weak  dilutions  of  religion-made- 
easy,  no  American  edition  of  the  works  of  this  sterling  au¬ 
thor  has  ever  been  issued ;  and  the  only  specimen  of  his 
writings  to  be  obtained  in  this  country,  is  a  mangled  copy 
of  some  of  his  ‘  Contemplations.’ 

This  selection  from  his  devotional  and  practical  writings, 
is  published  for  the  purpose  of  partially  supplying  the  defi¬ 
ciency,  and  as  a  sample  of  the  almost  inexhaustible  trea¬ 
sure  which  may  be  dug  from  the  same  mine.  Should  its 
reception  be  such  as  to  warrant  the  undertaking,  another 
volume  may  be  expected,  containing  treatises  of  a  some¬ 
what  different  character. 

It  only  remains,  to  assure  the  reader  that  these  ‘  selec¬ 
tions  ’  are  not  mutilations.  Each  treatise  and  epistle  is 
given  entire,  from  the  London  folios  of  1621  and  1634,  pub¬ 
lished  in  the  life-time  of  the  author.  The  ‘  Specialities  ’  is 
taken  entire,  from  the  London  folio  of  1662,  published  six 
years  after  the  bishop’s  death.  There  has  been  no  resort 
to  the  more  modern  English  editions,  but  the  originals  have 
been  strictly  adhered  to.  From  them  each  of  the  selections 
has  been  carefully  transcribed;  the  folios  have  been  colla¬ 
ted,  and  the  evident  errors  of, the  press  corrected.  Aside 
from  these  errors,  not  a  word  has  been  knowingly  altered, 


editor’s  preface.  vii 

save  in  its  orthography.  This,  and  the  punctuation  have 
been  so  modernized  as  to  take  away  that  uncouth  appear¬ 
ance  of  the  ‘  Old  English,’  the  repulsiveness  and  illegibility 
of  which  have  prevented  many  an  intelligent  Christian  from 
reading  ‘  books  which  are  books.’ 

For  the  convenience  of  young  readers  and  of  those  who 
will  wish  the  obsolete  expressions  had  not  been  retained, 
a  list  is  given  of  some  words  and  usages  which  are  of  rare 
occurrence  in  more  modern  writings. 

The  Editor,  in  justice  to  his  own  feelings,  cannot  pass 
by  this  opportunity  of  expressing  his  gratitude  to  Profes¬ 
sor  E.  A.  Park,  for  the  kind  advice  and  encouragement 
which  he  has  so  often  given,  during  the  preparation  of 
this  volume. 

With  the  prayer  that  these  treatises,  in  their  new  dress, 
may  be  blessed — as  they  were  in  the  old— to  the  spiritual 
growth  of  many  souls,  and  may  promote  the  advancement 
of  pure  religion  in  the  world,  this  book  is  commended  to 
the  serious  attention  of  the  Christian  reader. 

A.  H.  C. 

Theol.  Seminary ,  Andover , 

August  1st,  1845. 


.  :  !  .  ■  « ; 


■„  ...»  i  ’•  -  itb 

■  •  ' 


, 


' 


V 


A  LIST 


OF  SOME  UNUSUAL  WORDS,  AND  WORDS  IN  UNUSUAL  SENSES, 
FOUND  IN  THIS  VOLUME. 


Affect 

passim 

for  to  love,  desire. 

assays 

page  166 

CC 

efforts,  endeavors. 

appose 

“  211,319 

CC 

to  question. 

anachoret 

“  312 

CC 

a  hermit,  recluse. 

at  (an  equal) 

“  49 

cc 

from. 

bewray 

passim 

cc 

expose  to  view. 

bittour 

page  213 

cc 

the  bittern. 

barrator 

“  226 

cc 

an  encourager  of  lawsuits. 

conscience 

passim 

cc 

consciousness. 

CC 

page  149,  etc. 

cc 

conscientious  regard. 

challenge 

passim 

cc 

demand. 

composition 

page  33 

cc 

mixture. 

chirurgeon 

passim 

cc 

surgeon. 

censure 

CC 

cc 

opinion 

contentation 

CC 

cc 

contentment. 

characterism 

cc 

cc 

delineation  of  character. 

charactery 

cc 

cc 

u  u 

closure 

page  210 

cc, 

grasp. 

cratch 

“  255 

cc 

crib,  manger. 

eremitish 

“  36 

cc 

hermit-like. 

ebber 

“  45 

cc 

more  shallow. 

entire 

“  52,  etc. 

cc 

very  intimate. 

entireness 

“  157,  etc. 

cc 

intimate  friendship. 

CC 

“  279 

cc 

complete  possession. 

enow 

“  206 

cc 

plural  of  enough. 

fetch 

“  5 

cc 

stratagem. 

fautors 

“  151 

cc 

favorers. 

forslow 

“  298 

cc 

retard,  hinder. 

glosses 

“  187,199, 

etc.  “ 

specious  explanations. 

hearten 

“  6 

cc 

to  encourage. 

hale 

“  12 

cc 

pull,  drag. 

honest 

“  64 

•c 

to  adorn,  grace. 

husband 

“  280 

cc 

economist,  manager. 

X 


LIST  OF  UNUSUAL  WORDS 


inchoate 

page  51,  291,  et< 

infinite 

“  27,  93,  etc, 

interessed 

passim 

leese 

U 

list 

U 

let 

page  163,  274 

luting 

“  229 

luxation 

“  275 

middest 

passim 

motion 

CC 

manuary 

page  145 

meddled 

“  267 

naturalist 

“  51 

neezeth 

“  213 

overly 

“  305,317 

point 

“  21 

prank 

“  152 

parieting 

“  226 

rids 

“  116 

raught 

“  234 

set  by 

“  13 

slubbered  up 

“  25 

sith 

“  156 

streaking 

“  222 

sharp  (the) 

“  266, 268 

thorough 

passim 

tentation 

U 

traduced 

page  14 

unconscionable 

“  64,  etc. 

unkembed 

“  223 

wasters 

“  266 

whenever 

“  282 

for  begun. 

“  numberless. 

“  interested. 

“  lose. 

“  choose. 

“  hinderance. 

“  cementing. 

“  dislocation. 

“  midst. 

“  impulse,  emotion. 

“  performed  by  hand. 

“  mingled. 

“  an  unregenerate  person. 

“  sneezeth. 

“  careless,  negligent. 

“  appoint. 

“  to  dress  showily. 

“  repairing  the  wall. 

“  dispatches. 

“  reached. 

“  respected. 

“  carelessly  written. 

“  since. 

“  stretching. 

“  the  rapier. 

“  through. 

“  temptation,  trial. 

“  handed  down. 

t:  not  guided  by  conscience. 

“  uncombed. 

“  cudgels. 

“  if  ever. 


ERRATUM. 

Page  131,  end  of  fifth  line,  insert  ‘  locally,’  so  as  to  read  ‘  person¬ 
ally  and  locally  in  the  throng,’  etc. 


OBSERVATIONS 


OF  SOME  SPECIALITIES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  JOSEPH  HALLj 

BISHOP  OF  NORWICH. 


WEITTEN  WITH  IIIS  OWN  HAND. 

i 

Not  out  of  a  vain  affectation  of  my  own  glory— which 
I  know  how  little  it  can  avail  me  when  I  am  gone  hence— 
but  out  of  a  sincere  desire  to  give  glory  to  my  God,  whose 
wonderful  providence  I  have  noted  in  all  my  ways,  I  have 
recorded  some  remarkable  passages  of  my  fore-past  life. 
What  I  have  done,  is  worthy  of  nothing  but  silence  and 
forgetfulness ;  but  what  God  hath  done  for  me,  is  worthy 
of  everlasting  and  thankful  memory. 

I  was  born,  July  1,  1574,  at  five  of  the  clock  in  the 
morning,  in  Bristow  Park,  within  the  parish  of  Ashby  de  la 
Zouch,  a  town  in  Leicestershire — of  honest  and  well-al¬ 
lowed  parentage.  My  father  was  an  officer  under  that  truly 
honorable  and  religious  Henry,  Earl  of  Huntingdon,  Presi¬ 
dent  of  the  North;  and  under  him  had  the  government  of 
that  market-town  wherein  the  chief  seat  of  that  earldom  is 
placed.  My  mother,  Winifred,  of  the  house  of  the  Rambrid- 
ges,  was  a  woman  of  that  rare  sanctity,  that — were  it  not  for 
my  interest  in  nature — I  durst  say  that  neither  Aleth,  the 
mother  of  that  just  honor  of  Clairval,  nor  Monica,  nor  any 
other  of  those  pious  matrons  anciently  famous  for  devotion, 


Xll 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


need  to  disdain  her  admittance  to  comparison.  She  was 
continually  exercised  with  the  affliction  of  a  weak  body, 
and  oft  a  wounded  spirit,  the  agonies  whereof  as  she  would 
oft  recount  with  much  passion — -professing  that  the  great¬ 
est  bodily  sicknesses  were  but  flea-bites  to  those  scorpions 
— so  from  them  all  at  last  she  found  an  happy  and  com¬ 
fortable  deliverance,  and  that  not  without  a  more  than  or¬ 
dinary  hand  of  God.  For,  on  a  time,  being  in  great  dis¬ 
tress  of  conscience,  she  thought,  in  her  dream,  there  stood 
by  her  a  grave  personage  in  the  gown  and  other  habits  of 
a  physician,  who  inquiring  of  her  estate  and  receiving  a 
sad  and  querulous  answer  from  her,  took  her  by  the  hand 
and  bade  her  be  of  good  comfort,  for  this  should  be  the 

last  fit  that  ever  she  should  feel  of  this  kind ;  whereto  she 

» 

seemed  to  answer,  that  upon  that  condition  she  would  w7ell 
be  content  for  the  time,  with  that  or  any  other  torment : 
reply  was  made  to  her,  as  she  thought,  with  a  redoubled 
assurance  of  that  happy  issue  of  this  her  last  trial,  whereat 
she  began  to  conceive  an  unspeakable  joy ;  which  yet,  up¬ 
on  her  awaking,  left  her  more  disconsolate,  as  then  con¬ 
ceiting  her  happiness  imaginary,  her  misery  real ;  when, 
the  very  same  day,  she  was  visited  by  the  reverend,  and  in 
his  time  famous,  divine,  Mr.  Anthony  Gilby,  under  whose 
ministry  she  lived ;  who,  upon  the  relation  of  this  her 
pleasing  vision,  and  the  contrary  effects  it  had  in  her,  be¬ 
gan  to  persuade  her  that  dream  was  no  other  than  divine, 
and  that  she  had  good  reason  to  think  that  gracious  premo¬ 
nition  was  sent  her  from  God  himself,  who,  though  ordi¬ 
narily  he  keeps  the  common  road  of  his  proceedings,  yet 
sometimes  in  the  distresses  of  his  servants,  he  goes  unu¬ 
sual  ways  to  their  relief.  Hereupon  she  began  to  take 
heart,  and  by  good  counsel  and  her  fervent  prayer,  found 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


XII  l 


that  happy  prediction  verified  to  her ;  and  upon  all  occa¬ 
sions  in  the  remainder  of  her  life,  was  ready  to  magnify 
the  mercy  of  her  God  in  so  sensible  a  deliverance ; — what 
with  the  trial  of  both  these  hands  of  God,  so  had  she  pro¬ 
fited  in  the  school  of  Christ,  that  it  was  hard  for  any  friend 
to  come  from  her  discourse  no  whit  holier.  How  often 
have  I  blessed  the  memory  of  those  divine  passages  of  ex¬ 
perimental  divinity  which  I  have  heard  from  her  mouth ! 
What  day  did  she  pass  without  a  large  task  of  private  de¬ 
votion,  whence’  she  would  still  come  forth  with  a  counte¬ 
nance  of  undissembled  mortification  !  Never  any  lips  have 
read  to  me  such  feeling  lectures  of  piety ;  neither  have  I 
known  any  soul  that  more  accurately  practised  them  than 
her  own.  Temptations,  Desertions,  and  Spiritual  Comforts, 
were  her  usual  theme.  Shortly — for  I  can  hardly  take  off 
iny  pen  from  so  exemplary  a  subject — her  life  and  death 
were  saint-like. 

My  parents  had  from  mine  infancy  devoted  me  to  this 
sacred  calling,  whereto,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  I  have  sea¬ 
sonably  attained.  For  this  cause,  I  was  trained  up  in  the 
public  school  of  the  place.  After  I  had  spent  some  years 
not  altogether  indiligently — under  the  ferule  of  such  mas¬ 
ters  as  the  place  afforded,  and  had  near  attained  to  some 
competent  ripeness  for  the  university,  my  school-master, 
being  a  great  admirer  of  one  Mr.  Pelset,  who  was  then 
lately  come  from  Cambridge  to  be  the  public  preacher  of 
Leicester — a  man  very  eminent  in  those  times  for  the  fame 
of  his  learning,  but  especially  for  his  sacred  oratory — -per¬ 
suaded  my  father  that  if  I  might  have  my  education  under 
so  excellent  and  complete  a  divine,  it  might  be  both  a  near¬ 
er  and  easier  way  to  his  purposed  end,  than  by  an  academi 
cal  institution.  The  motion  sounded  well  in  my  father’ 


XIV 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


ears,  and  carried  fair  probabilities ;  neither  was  it  other 
than  fore-compacted  betwixt  my  school-master  and  Mr. 
Pelset,  so  as  on  both  sides  it  was  entertained  with  great 
forwardness. 

The  gentleman,  upon  essay  taken  of  my  fitness  for  the 
use  of  his  studies,  undertakes  within  one  seven  years  to 
send  me  forth  no  less  furnished  with  arts,  languages,  and 
grounds  of  theorical  divinity,  than  the  carefullest  tutor  in 
the  strictest  college  of  either  university;  which  that  he 
might  assuredly  perform,  to  prevent  the  danger  of  any  mu¬ 
table  thoughts  in  my  parents  or  myself,  he  desired  mutual 
bonds  to  be  drawn  betwixt  us.  The  great  charge  of  my 
father — whom  it  pleased  God  to  bless  with  twelve  children 
— made  him  the  more  apt  to  yield  to  so  likely  a  project  for 
a  younger  son.  There,  and  now,  were  all  the  hopes  of  my 
future  life  upon  blasting :  the  indentures  were  preparing, 
the  time  was  set,  my  suits  were  addressed  for  the  journey. 
What  was  the  issue  ?  O  God,  thy  providence  made  and 
found  it.  Thou  knowest  how  sincerely  and  heartily  in 
those  my  young  years  [in  the  fifteenth  year  of  my  age,]  I 
did  cast  myself  upon  thy  hands ;  with  what  faithful  resolu¬ 
tion  I  did  in  this  particular  occasion  resign  myself  over  to 
thy  disposition,  earnestly  begging  of  thee  in  my  fervent 
prayers  to  order  all  things  to  the  best,  and  confidently 
waiting  upon  thy  will  for  the  event !  Certainly,  never  did 
I,  in  all  my  life,  more  clearly  roll  myself  upon  thy  divine 
providence,  than  I  did  in  this  business ;  and  it  succeeded 
accordingly.  It  fell  out,  at  this  time,  that  my  elder  brother, 
having  some  occasions  to  journey  into  Cambridge,  was 
kindly  entertained  there  by  Mr.  Nathaniel  Gilby,  Fellow  of 
Emanuel  College,  who,  for  that  he  was  born  in  the  same 
town  with  me,  and  had  conceived  some  good  opinion  of 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


XV 


my  aptness  to  learning,  inquired  diligently  concerning  me ; 
and  hearing  of  the  diversion  of  my  father’s  purposes  from 
the  university,  importunately  dissuaded  from  that  new 
course,  professing  to  pity  the  loss  of  so  good  hopes.  My 
brother,  partly  moved  with  his  words,  and  partly  won  by 
his  own  eyes,  to  a  great  love  and  reverence  of  an  aca¬ 
demical  life,  returning  home,  fell  upon  his  knees  to  my 
father,  and  after  the  report  of  Mr.  Gilby’s  words  and  his 
own  admiration  of  the  place,  earnestly  besought  him  that  he 
would  be  pleased  to  alter  that  so  prejudicial  a  resolution, 
that  he  would  not  suffer  my  hopes  to  be  drowned  in  a 
shallow  country-channel,  but  that  he  would  revive  his  first 
purposes  for  Cambridge ;  adding,  in  the  zeal  of  his  love, 
that  if  the  chargeableness  of  that  course  were  the  hinder- 
ance,  he  did  then  humbly  beseech  him  rather  to  sell  some 
part  of  that  land  which  himself  should  in  course  of  nature 
inherit,  than  to  abridge  me  of  that  happy  means  to  perfect 
my  education. 

No  sooner  had  he  spoken  these  words,  than  my  father 
no  less  passionately  condescended,  not  without  a  vehement 
protestation,  that  whatsoever  it  might  cost  him,  I  should — 
God  willing — be  sent  to  the  university :  neither  were  those 
words  sooner  out  of  his  lips,  than  there  was  a  messenger 
from  Mr.  Pelset  knocking  at  the  door  to  call  me  to  that 
fairer  bondage,  saying  that  the  next  day  he  expected  me 
with  a  full  dispatch  of  all  that  business  :  to  whom  my 
father  replied,  that  he  came  some  minutes  too  late,  that  he 
had  now  otherwise  determined  of  me,  and  with  a  respec¬ 
tive  message  of  thanks  to  the  master,  sent  the  man  home 
empty  ;  leaving  me  full  of  the  tears  of  joy,  for  so  happy  a 
change  : — indeed,  I  had  been  but  lost  if  that  project  had 
succeeded,  as  it  well  appeared  in  the  experience  of  him 


Xvi  SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 

who  succeeded  in  that  room  which  was  by  me  thus  un¬ 
expectedly  forsaken.  O  God,  how  was  I  then  taken  up 
with  a  thankful  acknowledgment  and  joyful  admiration 
of  thy  gracious  providence  over  me  !  And  now  I  lived  in 
the  expectation  of  Cambridge,  whither  ere  long  I  happily 
came,  under  Mr.  Gilby’s  tuition,  together  with  my  worthy 
friend,  Mr.  Hugh  Cholmley,  who  as  we  had  been  partners 
of  one  lesson  from  our  cradles,  so  were  we  now  for  many 
years  partners  of  one  bed.  My  two  first  years  were  ne¬ 
cessarily  chargeable  above  the  proportion  of  my  father’s 
power,  whose  not  very  large  cistern  was  to  feed  many 
pipes  besides  mine.  His  weariness  of  expense  was 
wrought  upon  by  the  counsel  of  some  unwise  friends, 
who  persuaded  him  to  fasten  me  upon  that  school  as  mas¬ 
ter,  whereof  I  was  lately  a  scholar.  Now  was  I  fetched 
home1  with  an  heavy  heart,  and  now  this  second  time  had 
my  hopes  been  nipped  in  the  blossom,  had  not  God  raised 
me  up  an  unhoped  benefactor,  Mr.  Edmund  Sleigh,  of  Der¬ 
by — whose  pious  memory  I  have  cause  ever  to  love  and 
reverence.  Out  of  no  other  relation  to  me  save  that  he 
married  my  aunt,  pitying  my  too  apparent  dejectedness, 
he  voluntarily  urged  and  solicited  my  father  for  my  return 
to  the  university,  and  offered  freely  to  contribute  the  one 
half  of  my  maintenance  there  till  I  should  attain  to  the 
degree  of  Master  of  Arts, — which  he  no  less  really  and 
lovingly  performed.  The  condition  was  gladly  accepted  : 
thither  was  I  sent  back  with  joy  enough,  and  ere  long 
chosen  scholar  of  that  strict  and  well-ordered  college. 
By  that  time  I  had  spent  six  years  there,  now  the  third 
year  of  my  Bachelorship  should  at  once  both  make  an  end 
of  my  maintenance,  and,  in  respect  of  standing,  give  me  a 


1  A.  D.  1591. — Chalmers. 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


XVII 


capacity  of  farther  preferment  in  that  house,  were  it  not 
that  my  country  excluded  me ;  for  our  Statute  allowed  but 
one  of  a  shire  to  be  Fellow  there,  and  my  tutor  being  of 
the  same  town  with  me  must  therefore  necessarily  hold  me 
out.  But,  O  my  God,  how  strangely  did  thy  precious 
providence  fetch  this  business  about !  I  was  now  enter¬ 
taining  notions  of  remove ;  a  place  was  offered  me  in  the 
island  of  Guernsey,  which  I  had  in  speech  and  chase.  It 
fell  out  that  the  father  of  my  loving  chamber-fellow,  Mr. 
Cholmley,  a  gentleman  that  had  likewise  dependence  upon 
the  most  noble  Henry,  Earl  of  Huntingdon,  having  occa¬ 
sion  to  go  to  York,  unto  that  his  honorable  lord  fell  in¬ 
to  some  mention  of  me,  that  good  earl — who  well  esteem¬ 
ed  my  father’s  service — having  belikely  heard  some  better 
words  of  me  than  I  could  deserve,  made  earnest  inquiry 
after  me,  what  were  my  courses ;  what  *  my  hopes ;  and 
hearing  of  the  likelihood  of  my  removal,  professed  much 
dislike  of  it ;  not  without  some  vehemence  demanding 
why  I  was  not  chosen  Fellow  of  that  College,  wherein, 
by  report,  I  received  such  approbation.  Answer  was  re¬ 
turned  that  my  country  debarred  me,  which  being  filled 
with  my  tutor,  whom  his  lordship  well  knew,  could  not  by 
the  Statute  admit  a  second.  The  earl  presently  replied, 
that  if  that  were  the  hinderance,  he  would  soon  take  order 
to  remove  it:  whereupon  his  lordship  presently  sends 
for  my  tutor,  Mr.  Gilby,  unto  York,  and  with  proffer  of 
large  conditions  of  the  chaplainship  in  his  house,  and  as¬ 
sured  promises  of  better  provisions,  drew  him  to  relinquish 
his  place  in  the  College  to  a  free  election.  No  sooner  was 
his  assent  signified,  than  the  day  was  set  for  the  public — 
and  indeed  exquisite — examination  of  the  competitors. 
By  that  time  two  days  of  the  three  allotted  to  this  trial 

B 


XV111 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


were  past,  certain  news  came  to  us  of  the  unexpected 
death  of  that  incomparably  religious  and  noble  earl  of 
Huntingdon ;  by  whose  loss  my  then  disappointed  tutor 
must  necessarily  be  left  to  the  wide  world  unprovided  for. 
Upon  notice  thereof,  I  presently  repaired  to  the  Master  of 
the  College,  Mr.  Dr.  Cbaderton,  and  besought  him  to  ren¬ 
der  that  hard  condition  to  which  my  good  tutor  must  needs 
be  driven  if  the  election  proceeded ;  to  stay  any  farther 
progress  in  that  business  ;  and  to  leave  me  to  my  own  good 
hopes  wheresoever,  whose  youth  exposed  me  to  less  needs 
and  more  opportunities  of  provision.  Answer  was  made 
me  that  the  place  was  pronounced  void  however,  and 
therefore  that  my  tutor  was  divested  of  all  possibility 
of  remedy,  and  must  wait  upon  the  providence  of  God 
for  his  disposing  elsewhere,  and  the  election  must  neces¬ 
sarily  proceed  the  day  following.  Then  was  I,  with  a 
cheerful  unanimity,  chosen  into  that  society,  which  if  it 
had  any  equals,  I  dare  say  had  none  beyond  it,  for  good 
order,  studious  carriage,  strict  government,  austere  piety — 
in  which  I  spent  six  or  seven  years  more,  with  such  con¬ 
tentment  as  the  rest  of  my  life  hath  in  vain  striven  to 
yield.1  Now  was  I  called  to  public  disputations  often,  with 
no  ill  success ;  for  never  durst  I  appear  in  any  of  those 
exercises  of  scholarship,  till  I  had  from  my  knees  looked 
up  to  heaven  for  a  blessing,  and  renewed  my  actual  de¬ 
pendence  upon  that  Divine  hand.  In  this  while,  two  years 
together  was  I  chosen  to  the  rhetoric-lecture  in  the  public 
school,  where  I  was  encouraged  with  a  sufficient  frequence 
of  auditors ;  but  finding  that  well-applauded  work  some¬ 
what  out  of  my  way,  not  without  a  secret  blame  of  myself 

1  In  1596,  he  took  his  degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  and  acquitted 
himself  on  every  public  trial  with  great  reputation. — Chalmers. 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


xix 


for  so  much  excursion,  I  fairly  gave  up  that  task,  in  the 
midst  of  those  poor  acclamations,  to  a  worthy  successor, 
Mr.  Dr.  Dod ;  and  betook  myself  to  those  serious  studies 
which  might  fit  me  for  that  high  calling  whereunto  I  was 
destined  j1  wherein  after  I  had  carefully  bestowed  myself 
for  a  time,  I  took  the  boldness  to  enter  into  sacred  orders 
— the  honor  whereof  having  once  attained,  I  was  no  nig¬ 
gard  of  that  talent  which  my  God  had  entrusted  to  me  ; 
preaching  often  as  occasion  was  offered  both  in  country- 
villages  abroad,  and  at  home  in  the  most  awful  auditory  of 
the  university.  And  now  I  did  but  wait  where  and  how  it 
would  please  my  God  to  employ  me.2  There  was  at  that 
time  a  most  famous  school  erected  at  Tiverton  in  Devon, 
and  endowed  with  a  very  large  pension,  whose  good  fab¬ 
ric  was  answerable  to  the  reported  maintenance,  the  care 
whereof  was,  by  the  rich  and  bountiful  founder,  Mr.  Blun- 
del,  cast  principally  upon  the  then  Lord  Chief  Justice 
Popham.  That  faithful  observer  having  great  interest  in 

1  Puller  says  in  his  ‘  Worthies  of  England’  that  “  he  passed  all 
his  degrees  with  great  applause.  First,  noted  in  the  university  for 
his  ingenious  maintaining — be  it  truth  or  paradox — that  ‘  mundus 
senescif — the  world  groweth  old.  Yet,  in  some  sort,  his  position 
confuteth  his  position,  the  wit  and  quickness  whereof  did  argue  and 
increase  rather  than  a  decay  of  parts  in  this  latter  age.’ — Jones. 

2  He  had  resided  at  College  in  the  whole  about  thirteen  years. — 
Jones. 

It  was  while  in  College,  during  the  years  1597 — 99,  that  he 
published  his  Satires,  which  won  for  him  great  fame  as  a  poet, 
and  the  title  of  ‘  the  first  legitimate  English  Satirist.’ — ‘  The  Sa¬ 
tires  of  Hall  exhibit  a  very  minute  and  curious  picture  of  the  lit¬ 
erature  and  manners,  the  follies  and  vices  of  his  times  ;  they  am¬ 
ply  prove  the  wit,  the  sagacity  and  the  elegance  of  his  muse.’ 
Warton  wrote  a  fine  analysis  of  these  Satires.  Hall  wrote  also  in 
other  styles  of  poetry,  and  in  later  years  versified  some  of  the 
Psalms. 


XX 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


the  master  of  our  house,  Dr.  Chaderton,  moved  him  ear¬ 
nestly  to  commend  some  able,  learned,  and  discreet  gover¬ 
nor  to  that  weighty  charge — whose  action  would  not  need 
to  be  so  much  as  his  oversight.  It  pleased  our  master,  out 
of  his  good  opinion,  to  tender  this  condition  unto  me,  as¬ 
suring  me  of  no  small  advantages  and  no  great  toil,  since 
it  was  intended  the  main  load  of  the  work  should  lie  upon 
other  shoulders.  I  apprehended  the  motion  worth  the  en¬ 
tertaining  :  in  that  severe  society,  our  times  were  stinted ; 
neither  was  it  wise  or  safe  to  refuse  good  offers.  Mr.  Dr. 
Chaderton  carried  me  to  London,  and  then  presented  me 
to  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  with  much  testimony  of  appro¬ 
bation.  The  Judge  seemed  well  appaid  for  the  choice ;  I 
promised  acceptance  ;  he,  the  strength  of  his  favor.  No 
sooner  had  I  parted  from  the  Judge,  than  in  the  street  a 
messenger  presented  me  with  a  letter  from  the  right  vir¬ 
tuous  and  worthy  lady,  of  dear  and  happy  memory,  the 
Lady  Drury,  of  Suffolk,  tendering  the  rectory  of  her  Hal- 
sted,  then  newly  void,  and  very  earnestly  desiring  me  to 
accept  of  it.  Dr.  Chaderton,  observing  in  me  some  change 
of  countenance,  asked  me  what  the  matter  might  be.  I 
told  him  the  errand  and  delivered  him  the  letter,  beseech¬ 
ing  his  advice ;  which  when  he  had  read,  4  Sir,’  quoth  I, 
‘  methinks  God  pulls  me  by  the  sleeve,  and  tells  me  it  is 
his  will  I  should  rather  go  to  the  east  than  to  the  west.’ 
4  Nay,’  he  answered,  4 1  should  rather  think  that  God  would 
have  you  go  westward,  for  that  he  hath  contrived  your  en¬ 
gagement  before  the  tender  of  this  letter,  which  therefore 
coming  too  late,  may  receive  a  fair  and  easy  answer.’  To 
this  I  besought  him  to  pardon  my  dissent ;  adding  that  I 
well  knew  that  Divinity  was  the  end  whereto  I  was  des¬ 
tined  by  my  parents,  which  I  had  so  constantly  proposed 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


xxi 


to  myself,  that  I  never  meant  other  than  to  pass  through 
this  western  school  to  it ;  but  I  saw  that  God,  who  found 
me  ready  to  go  the  further  way  about,  now  called  me  the 
nearest  and  directest  way  to  that  sacred  end.  The  good 
man  could  no  further  oppose,  but  only  pleaded  the  dis¬ 
taste  which  would  hereupon  be  justly  taken  by  the  Lord 
Chief  Justice,  whom  I  undertook  fully  to  satisfy — which  I 
did  with  no  great  difficulty,  commending  to  his  lordship, 
in  my  room,  my  old  friend  and  chamber-fellow,  Mr. 
Cholmley,  who  finding  an  answerable  acceptance,  disposed 
himself  to  the  place :  so  as  we  two,  who  came  to  the 
University,  now  must  leave  it,  at  once.  Having  then  fixed 
my  foot  in  Iialsted,1  I  found  there  a  dangerous  opposite  to 
the  success  of  my  ministry,  a  witty  and  bold  atheist,  one 
Mr.  Lilly,2  who  by  reason  of  his  travels  and  abilities  of 
discourse  and  behaviour,  had  so  deeply  insinuated  himself 
into  my  patron,  Sir  Robert  Drury,  that  there  was  small 
hopes,  during  his  entireness,  for  me  to  work  any  good  up¬ 
on  that  noble  patron  of  mine,  who  by  the  suggestion  of 
this  wicked  detractor  was  set  off  from  me  before  he  knew 
me.  Hereupon,  I  confess,  finding  the  obdurateness  and 
hopeless  condition  of  that  man,  I  bent  my  prayers  against 
him ;  beseeching  God  daily  that  he  would  be  pleased  to 
remove,  by  some  means  or  other,  that  apparent  hinderance 
of  my  faithful  labors ; — who  gave  me  an  answer  accord¬ 
ingly.  For  this  malicious  man  going  hastily  to  London  to 
exasperate  my  patron  against  me,  was  then  and  there 
swept  away  by  the  pestilence,  and  never  returned  to  do 
.any  further  mischief.  Now  the  coast  was  clear  before  me, 
and  I  gained  every  day  of  the  good  opinion  and  favorable 

1  December  2,  1601. — Sir  T.  Cullum. 

2  Probably  John  Lilly,  the  Dramatic  writer. — Jones. 


XXII 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


respects  of  that  honorable  gentleman  and  my  worthy 
neighbors.  Being  now  therefore  settled  in  that  sweet  and 
civil  county  of  Suffolk,  near  to  St.  Edmunds-Bury,  my  first 
work  was  to  build  up  my  house,  which  was  extremely  ru¬ 
inous  ;  which  done,  the  uncouth  solitariness  of  my  life 
and  the  extreme  incommodity  of  that  single  house-keeping, 
drew  my  thoughts,  after  two  years,  to  condescend  to  the 
necessity  of  a  married  estate,  which  God  no  less  strangely 
provided  for  me :  for  walking  from  church,  on  Monday,  in 
the  Whitsun-week,  with  a  grave  and  reverend  minister, 
Mr.  Grandidge,  I  saw  a  comely  and  modest  gentlewoman 
standing  at  the  door  of  that  house  where  we  were  invited 
to  a  wedding-dinner  ;  and  inquiring  of  that  worthy  friend 
whether  he  knew  her,  ‘  Yes,’  quoth  he,  ‘I  know  her  well, 
and  have  bespoken  her  for  your  wife.’  When  I  further 
demanded  an  account  of  that  answer,  he  told  me  she  was 
the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  whom  he  much  respected, 
Mr.  George  Winniff,  of  Bretenham ;  that  out  of  an  opin¬ 
ion  had  of  the  fitness  of  that  match  for  me,  he  had  already 
treated  with  her  father  about  it,  whom  he  found  very  apt 
to  entertain  it — advising  me  not  to  neglect  the  opportuni¬ 
ty,  and  not  concealing  the  just  praises  of  modesty,  piety, 
good  disposition,  and  other  virtues  that  were  lodged  in  that 
seemly  presence.  I  listened  to  that  motion  as  sent  from 
God ;  and  at  last,  upon  due  prosecution,  happily  prevailed, 
enjoying  the  comfortable  society  of  that  meet  help  for  the 
space  of  forty-nine  years.1  I  had  not  passed  two  years  in 
this  estate,  when  my  noble  friend,  Sir  Edmund  Bacon, 
with  whom  I  had  much  entirenegs,  came  to  me  and  ear¬ 
nestly  solicited  me  for  my  company  in  a  journey  by  him 

1  They  had  several  children ;  of  whom  two  at  least,  Robert  and 
George,  were  clergymen,  and  Doctors  of  Divinity, 


/  LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL.  XXifi 

projected  to  the  Spa  in  Ardenna,  laying  before  me  the  safe¬ 
ty,  the  easiness,  the  pleasure,  and  the  benefit,  of  that 
small  extravagance,  if  opportunity  were  taken  of  that  time 
when  the  earl  of  Hertford  passed  in  embassy  to  the  arch¬ 
duke  Albert  of  Brussels.  I  soon  yielded  ;  as  for  the  rea¬ 
sons  by  him  urged,  so  specially  for  the  great  desire  I  had 
to  inform  myself  ocularly  of  the  state  and  practise  of  the 
Romish  church ;  the  knowledge  whereof  might  be  of  no 
small  use  to  me  in  my  holy  station.  Having  therefore 
taken  careful  order  for  the  supply  of  my  charge,  with  the 
assent  and  good  allow  ance  of  my  nearest  friends,  I  entered 
into  this  secret  voyage.1  We  waited  some  days  at  Har¬ 
wich  for  a  wind,  which  we  hoped  might  waft  us  over  to 
Dunkirk,  where  our  ambassador  had  lately  landed ;  but  at 
last,  having  spent  a  day  and  half  a  night  at  sea,  we  were 
forced  for  want  of  favor  from  the  wind,  to  put  in  at  Queen- 
borough,  from  whence  coasting  over  the  rich  and  pleasant 
country  of  Kent,  we  renewed  our  shipping  at  Dover,  and 
soon  landing  at  Calais,  we  passed,  after  two  days,  by  wag¬ 
on  to  the  strong  towns  of  Gravelines  and  Dunkirk,  where 
I  could  not  but  find  much  horror  in  myself  to  pass  under 
those  dark  and  dreadful  prisons,  where  so  many  brave 
Englishmen  had  breathed  out  their  souls  in  a  miserable 
captivity.  From  thence  we  passed  through  Winoxberg, 
Ypres,  Ghent,  Courtray,  to  Brussels,  when  the  ambassador 
had  newly  sat  down  before  us.  That  noble  gentleman  in 
whose  company  I  traveled  was  welcome  with  many  kind 
visitations :  among  the  rest  there  came  to  him  an  English 
gentleman,  who  having  run  himself  out  of  breath  in  the 
Inns  of  Court,  had  forsaken  his  country  and  therewith  his 
religion,  and  was  turned  both  bigot  and  physician— resid- 


1  A.  D.  1605. 


XXIV 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


ing  now  in  Brussels.  This  man,  after  few  interchanges  of 
compliment  with  Sir  Edmund  Bacon,  fell  into  a  hyperbol¬ 
ical  prediction  of  the  wonderful  miracles  done  newly  by 
our  Lady  at  Zichem  or  Sherpen-heavell,  that  is,  Sharp- 
Hill,  by  Lipsius  Apricollis  ;  the  credit  whereof  when  that 
worthy  knight  wittily  questioned,  he  avowed  a  particular 
miracle  of  cure  wrought  by  her  upon  himself.  I,  coming 
into  the  room  in  the  midst  of  this  discourse — habited  not 
like  a  divine,  but  in  such  color  and  fashion  as  might  best 
serve  my  travel — and  hearing  my  countryman’s  zealous 
and  confident  relations,  at  last  asked  him  this  question  : 

4  Sir,’  quoth  I,  4  put  case  this  report  of  yours  be  granted 
for  true,  I  beseech  you  teach  what  difference  there  is  be¬ 
twixt  these  miracles  which  you  say  are  wrought  by  this 
Lady,  and  those  which  were  wrought  by  Vespasian,  by 
some  vestals,  by  charms,  and  by  spells  ; — the  rather  for 
that  I  have  noted,  in  the  late  published  report  of  their  mi¬ 
racles,  some  patients  prescribed  to  come  upon  a  Friday, 
and  some  to  wash  in  such  a  well  before  their  approach, 
and  divers  other  such  charm-like  observations.’  The  gen¬ 
tleman,  not  expecting  such  a  question  from  me,  answered, 

4  Sir,  I  do  not  profess  this  kind  of  scholarship,  but  we 
have  in  the  city  many  famous  divines,  with  whom  if  it 
would  please  you  to  confer,  you  might  sooner  receive  satis¬ 
faction.’  I  asked  him  whom  he  took  for  the  most  emi¬ 
nent  divine  of  that  place.  He  named  to  me  Father  Cos- 
terus,  undertaking  that  he  would  be  very  glad  to  give  me 
conference  if  I  would  be  pleased  to  come  up  to  the  Jesuits’ 
College.  I  willingly  yielded.  In  the  afternoon,  the  for¬ 
ward  gentleman  prevented  his  time  to  attend  me  to  the 
Father — as  he  styled  him— who,  as  he  said,  was  ready  to 
entertain  me  with  a  meeting.  I  went  alone  with  him. 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


XXV 


The  porter  shutting  the  door  after  me,  welcomed  me  with 
a  ‘  Deo  gratias.’  I  had  not  staid  long  in  the  Jesuits’  Hall, 
before  Costerus  came  in  to  me  ;  who,  after  a  friendly  sal¬ 
utation,  fell  into  a  formal  speech  of  the  unity  of  that 
church  out  of  which  is  no  salvation  ;  and  had  proceeded 
to  leese  his  breath  and  labor,  had  not  I — as  civily  as  I  might 
— interrupted  him  with  this  short  answer  ; — ‘  Sir,  I  be¬ 
seech  you,  mistake  me  not.  My  nation  tells  you  of  what 
religion  I  am :  I  come  not  hither  out  of  any  doubt  of  my 
professed  belief,  or  any  purpose  to  change  it ;  but  moving 
a  question  to  this  gentleman  concerning  the  pretended  mi¬ 
racles  of  the  time,  he  pleased  to  refer  me  to  yourself  for 
an  answer  ;  which  motion  of  his  I  was  the  more  willing  to 
embrace,  for  the  fame  that  I  have  heard  of  your  learning 
and  worth  ;  and  if  you  can  give  me  satisfaction  herein,  I 
am  ready  to  receive  it.’  Hereupon  we  settled  to  our  places 
at  a  table  in  the  end  of  the  Hall,  and  buckled  to  a  farther 
discourse.  He  fell  into  a  poor  and  imperfect  account  of 
the  difference  of  Divine  miracles  and  diabolical,  which  I 
modestly  refuted.  From  thence,  he  slipped  into  a  chol¬ 
eric  invective  against  our  church,  which  as  he  said,  could 
not  yield  one  miracle  ;  and  when  I  answered  that  in  our 
church  we  had  manifest  proof  of  the  ejection  of  devils  by 
fasting  and  prayer,  he  answered  that  if  it  could  be  proved 
that  ever  any  devil  was  dispossessed  in  our  church,  he 
would  change  his  religion.  Many  questions  were  instant¬ 
ly  traversed  by  us ;  wherein  I  found  no  satisfaction  given 
me.  The  conference  was  long  and  vehement :  in  the 
heat  whereof,  who  should  come  in  but  Father  Baldwin,  an 
English  Jesuit,  known  to  me — -as  by  my  face,  after  I  came 
to  Brussels — so  much  more  by  fame.  He  sat  down  upon 
a  bench  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table,  and  heard  no  small 


XXVI 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


part  of  our  dissertation,  seeming  not  too  well  appaid  that 
a  gentleman  of  his  nation — for  still  I  was  spoken  to  in  that 
habit  by  the  style  of  ‘  dominatio  vestra’ — should  depart 
from  the  Jesuits’  College  no  better  satisfied.  On  the  next 
morning,  therefore,  he  sends  the  same  English  physician  to 
my  lodging  with  a  courteous  compellation,  professing  to 
take  it  unkindly  that  his  countryman  should  make  choice 
of  any  other  to  confer  with  than  himself,  who  desired  both 
mine  acquaintance  and  satisfaction.  Sir  Edmund  Bacon, 
in  whose  hearing  the  message  was  delivered,  gave  me 
secret  signs  of  his  utter  unwillingness  to  give  way  to  any 
farther  conferences,  the  issue  whereof — since  we  were  to 
pass  further,  and  beyond  the  bounds  of  that  protection — 
might  prove  dangerous.  I  returned  a  mannerly  answer 

I 

of  thanks  to  Father  Baldwin ;  but  for  any  further  confer¬ 
ence,  that  it  were  bootless :  I  could  not  hope  to  convert 
him,  and  was  resolved  he  should  not  alter  me  ;  and  there¬ 
fore  both  of  us  should  rest  where  we  were. 

Departing  from  Brussels,  we  were  for  Namur  and  Liege. 
In  the  way,  we  found  the  good  hand  of  God  in  delivering 
us  from  the  danger  of  freebooters  and  of  a  nightly  entrance, 
amidst  a  suspicious  convoy,  into  the  bloody  city.  Thence 
we  came  to  the  Spadane  waters ;  where  I  had  good  leisure 
to  add  a  second  Century  of  ‘  Meditations,’1  to  those  I  had 
published  before  my  journey.  After  we  had  spent  a  just 
time  at  these  medicinal  wells,  we  returned  to  Liege,  and  in 
our  pass  up  the  river  Mosa,9  I  had  a  dangerous  conflict 
with  a  Sorbonist,  a  prior  of  the  Carmelites,  who  took  occa¬ 
sion,  by  our  kneeling  at  the  receipt  of  the  eucharist,  to  per¬ 
suade  all  the  company  of  our  acknowledgment  of  a  tran- 
substantiation.  I  satisfied  the  cavil ;  showing  upon  what 


1  Published  in  1605. — Sanford. 


2  The  Maes. 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


xxvii 


ground  this  meet  posture  obtained  with  us.  The  man 
grew  furious  upon  his  conviction,  and  his  vehement  asso¬ 
ciates  began  to  join  with  him  in  a  right  down  railing  upon 
our  church  and  religion.  I  told  them  they  knew  where 
they  were ;  for  me,  I  had  taken  notice  of  the  security  of 
their  laws,  inhibiting  any  argument  held  against  their  reli¬ 
gion  established,  and  therefore  stood  only  upon  my  defence, 
not  casting  any  aspersion  upon  theirs,  but  ready  to  main¬ 
tain  our  own ;  which  though  I  performed  in  as  fair  terms 
as  I  might,  yet  the  choler  of  those  zealots  was  so  moved, 
that  the  paleness  of  their  changed  countenances  begun  to 
threaten  some  perilous  issue,  had  not  Sir  Edmund  Bacon, 
both  by  his  eye  and  his  tongue,  wisely  taken  me  off.  I 
subduced  myself  speedily  from  their  presence,  to  avoid  fur¬ 
ther  provocation.  The  prior  began  to  bewray  some  suspi¬ 
cions  of  my  borrowed  habit,  and  told  them  that  himself 
had  a  green  satin  suit  once  prepared  for  his  travels  into 
England ;  so  as  I  found  it  needful  for  me  to  lie  close  at 
Namur;  from  whence  traveling  the  next  day  towards 
Brussels  in  the  company  of  two  Italian  captains,  Signor 
Ascamo  Nigro  and  another  whose  name  I  have  forgotten 
— who  inquiring  into  our  nation  and  religion,  wondered  to 
hear  that  we  had  any  baptism  or  churches  in  England — 
the  congruity  of  my  Latin,  in  respect  of  their  perfect  bar¬ 
barism,  drew  me  and  the  rest  into  their  suspicion ;  so  as  I 
might  overhear  them  muttering  to  each  other  that  we  were 
not  the  men  we  appeared.  Straight  the  one  of  them  boldly 
expressed  his  conceit,  and  together  with  this  charge,  began 
to  inquire  of  our  condition.  I  told  him  that  the  gentleman 
he  saw  before  us  was  the  grandchild  of  that  renowned 
Bacon,  the  great  Chancellor  of  England,  a  man  of  great 
birth  and  quality :  and  that  myself  and  my  other  compan- 


XXVlll 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


ion  traveled  in  his  attendance  to  the  Spa,  from  the  train, 
and  under  the  privilege  of  our  late  ambassador — with 
which  just  answer,  I  stopped  their  mouths. 

Returning  through  Brussels,  we  came  down  to  Antwerp 
— the  paragon  of  cities — where  my  curiosity  to  see  a  sol¬ 
emn  procession  on  St.  John  Baptist’s  day,  might  have 
drawn  me  into  danger — through  my  willing  unreverence 
— had  not  the  hulk  of  a  tall  Brabanter,  behind  whom  I 
stood  in  a  corner  of  the  street,  shadowed  me  from  notice. 
Thence,  down  the  fair  river  of  Scheldt,  we  came  to  Flush¬ 
ing,  when  upon  the  resolution  of  our  company  to  stay 
some  hours,  I  hastened  to  Middleburgh,  to  see  an  ancient 
colleague.  That  visit  lost  me  my  passage.  Ere  I  could 
return,  I  might  see  our  ship  under  sail  for  England.  The 
master  had,  with  the  wind,  altered  his  purpose,  and  called 
aboard  with  such  eagerness  that  my  company  must  either 
away  or  undergo  the  hazard  of  too  much  loss.  I  looked 
long  after  them  in  vain ;  and  sadly  returning  to  Middle¬ 
burgh,  waited  long  for  an  inconvenient  and  tempestuous 
passage. 

After  some  year  and  a  half,  it  pleased  God  inexpectedly 
to  contrive  the  change  of  my  station.  My  means  were  but 
short  at  Halsted  ;  yet  such  as  I  often  professed  if  my  then 
patron  would  have  added  but  one  ten  pounds  by  year — 
which  I  held  to  be  the  value  of  my  detained  due — I  should 
never  have  removed.  One  morning  as  I  lay  in  my  bed,  a 
.  strong  motion  was  suddenly  glanced  into  my  thoughts,  of 
going  to  London.  I  arose  and  betook  me  to  the  way.  The 
ground  that  appeared  of  that  purpose,  was  to  speak  with 
my  patron,  Sir  Robert  Drury,  if  by  occasion  of  the  public 
preacbership  of  St.  Edmunds-Bury,  then  offered  me  upon 
good  conditions,  I  might  draw  him  to  a  willing  yieldance 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


xxix 


of  that  parcel  of  my  due  maintenance  which  was  kept  back 
from  my  not  over-deserving  predecessor ;  who,  hearing  my 
errand,  dissuaded  me  from  so  ungainful  a  change,  which, 
had  it  been  for  my  sensible  advantage,  he  would  have 
readily  given  way  unto — but  not  offering  the  expected  en¬ 
couragement  of  my  continuance.  With  him  I  staid  and 
preached  on  the  Sunday  following.  That  day,  Sir  Robert 
Drury,  meeting  with  the  Lord  Denny,  fell  belike  into  the 
commendation  of  my  sermon.  That  religious  and  noble 
Lord  had  long  harbored  good  thoughts  concerning  me,  up¬ 
on  the  reading  of  those  poor  pamphlets  which  I  had  for¬ 
merly  published,  and  long  wished  the  opportunity  to  know 
me.  To  please  him  in  his  desire,  Sir  Robert  willed  me  to 
go  and  tender  my  service  to  his  lordship,  which  I  modestly 
and  seriously  deprecated ;  yet  upon  his  earnest  charge,  went 
to  his  lordship’s  gate,  where  I  was  not  sorry  to  hear  of  his 
absence.  And  being  now,  full  of  cold  and  distemper,  in 
Drury  Lane,  I  was  found  by  a  friend  in  whom  I  had  for¬ 
merly  no  great  interest — one  Mr.  Gurrey,  tutor  to  the  earl 
of  Essex.  He  told  me  how  well  my  Meditations  were  ac¬ 
cepted  at  the  Prince’s  court,  and  earnestly  advised  me  to 
step  over  to  Richmond  and  preach  to  his  highness.1  I 
strongly  pleaded  my  indisposition  of  body  and  my  unpre¬ 
paration  for  any  such  work,  together  with  my  bashful  fears 
and  utter  unfitness  for  any  such  a  presence.  My  averse¬ 
ness  doubled  his  importunity :  in  fine,  he  left  me  not  till  he 
had  my  engagement  to  preach  the  Sunday  following  at 

1  Prince  Henry,  eldest  son  of  Janies  I.  He  was  an  ardent  lover 
of  piety  and  religion  and  of  all  good  men.  Several  of  the  Bishop’s 
works  are  dedicated  to  this  prince.  He  died  Nov.  6,  1612,  and  at 
the  breaking  up  of  his  household,  Dr.  Hall  preached  an  eulogistic 
sermon,  deeply  lamenting  his  loss. 


XXX 


SPECIALITIES  I  N  THE 


Richmond.  He  made  way  for  me  to  that  awful  pulpit,  and 
encouraged  me  by  the  favor  of  his  noble  lord,  the  earl  of 
Essex.  I  preached  through  the  favor  of  my  God.  That 
sermon  was  not  so  well  given  as  taken ;  insomuch  as  that 
sweet  prince  signified  his  desire  to  hear  me  again  the  Tues¬ 
day  following — which  done,  that  labor  gave  more  content¬ 
ment  than  the  former ;  so  as  that  gracious  prince  both  gave 
me  his  hand  and  commanded  me  to  his  service.1  My  pa¬ 
tron  seeing  me,  upon  my  return  to  London,  looked  after  by 
some  great  persons,  began  to  wish  me  at  home,  and  told 
me  that  some  or  other  would  be  snatching  me  up.  I  an¬ 
swered  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  prevent ;  would  he  be 
pleased  to  make  my  maintenance  but  so  competent  as  in 
right  it  should  be,  I  would  never  stir  from  him.  Instead 
of  condescending,  it  pleased  him  to  fall  into  an  expostula¬ 
tion  of  the  rate  of  competences,  affirming  the  variableness 
thereof  according  to  our  own  estimation  and  our  either 
raising  or  moderating  the  causes  of  our  expenses.  I  show¬ 
ed  him  the  insufficiency  of  my  means;  that  I  was  forced 
to  write  books  to  buy  books.  Shortly,  some  harsh  and  un¬ 
pleasing  answer  so  disheartened  me,  that  I  resolved  to  em¬ 
brace  the  first  opportunity  of  remove.  Now  while  I  was  ta¬ 
ken  up  with  these  anxious  thoughts,  a  messenger — it  was 
Sir  Robert  Wingfield  of  Northampton’s  son — came  to  me 
from  the  Lord  Denny,  now  earl  of  Norwich,  my  after  most 
honorable  patron,  entreating  me  from  his  lordship  to  speak 
with  him.  No  sooner  came  I  thither,  than  after  a  glad  and 
noble  welcome,  I  was  entertained  with  the  noble,  earnest 
offer  of  Waltham.  The  conditions  were,  like  the  mover, 

1  Wood  says  that  on  Oct.  30,  1611,  he  was  collated  to  the  Arch¬ 
deaconry  of  Nottingham,  upon  the  promotion  of  Dr.  John  King  to 
the  See  of  London.  Wood’s  Ath.  Yol.  I.  Fasti.  155. — Chalmers. 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


xxxi 


free  and  bountiful.  I  received  them  as  from  the  munifi¬ 
cent  hands  of  my  God,  and  returned,  full  of  the  cheerful 
acknowledgments  of  a  gracious  Providence  over  me.1  Too 
late  now  did  my  former  noble  patron  relent,  and  offer  me 
those  terms  which  had  before  fastened  me  forever.  I  re¬ 
turned  home  happy  in  a  new  master  and  in  a  new  patron : 
betwixt  whom  I  divided  myself  and  my  labors,  with  much 
comfort  and  no  less  acceptation.  In  the  second  year  of 
mine  atten lance  on  his  highness,  when  I  came  for  my  dis¬ 
mission  from  that  monthly  service,  it  pleased  the  prince  to 
command  me  a  longer  stay ;  and  at  last  upon  my  allowed 
departure,  by  the  mouth  of  Sir  Thomas  Challoner,  his  gov¬ 
ernor,  to  render  unto  me  a  motion  of  more  honor  and  fa¬ 
vor  than  I  was  worthy  of ;  which  was,  that  it  was  his 
Highness’  pleasure  and  purpose  to  have  me  continually 
resident  at  the  court  as  a  constant  attendant,  while  the  rest 
held  on  their  wonted  vicissitudes ;  for  which  purpose,  his 
Highness  would  obtain  for  me  such  preferments  as  would 
yield  me  full  contentment.  I  returned  my  humblest  thanks, 
and  my  readiness  to  sacrifice  myself  to  the  service  of  so 
gracious  a  master ;  but  being  conscious  to  myself  of  my  un¬ 
answerableness  to  so  great  expectation,  and  loth  to  forsake  so 
dear  and  noble  a  patron,  who  had  placed  much  of  his  heart 
upon  me,  I  modestly  put  it  off  and  held  close  to  my  Wal¬ 
tham  ;  where  in  a  constant  course  I  preached  a  long  time 
— as  I  had  done  also  at  Halsted  before — thrice  in  the  week ; 
yet  never  durst  I  climb  into  the  pulpit  to  preach  any  ser¬ 
mon,  whereof  I  had  not  before,  in  my  poor  and  plain  fash- 

1  About  the  same  time  (1612)  he  took  the  degree  of  Doctor  in 
Divinity. — Chalmers. 

About  the  year  1610,  he  wrote  his  c  Apology  against  the  Brown- 
ists.’ — Jones. 


XXX11 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


ion,  penned  every  word  in  the  same  order  wherein  I  hoped 
to  deliver  it ;  although  in  the  expression,  I  listed  not  to  be 
a  slave  to  syllables. 

In  this  while,  my  worthy  kinsman,  Mr.  Samuel  Barton, 
arch-deacon  of  Gloucester,  knowing  in  how  good  terms  I 
stood  at  court  and  pitying  the  miserable  condition  of  his 
native  church  of  Wolverhampton,  was  very  desirous  to  en¬ 
gage  me  in  so  difficult  and  noble  a  service  as  the  redemp¬ 
tion  of  that  captivated  church  ;  for  which  cause  he  impor¬ 
tuned  me  to  move  some  of  my  friends  to  solicit  the  dean 
of  Windsor — who  by  an  ancient  annexation  is  patron 
thereof — for  the  grant  of  a  particular  prebend  when  it 
should  fall  vacant  in  that  church.  Answer  was  returned 
me  that  it  was  fore-promised  to  one  of  my  fellow-chaplains. 
I  sat  down  without  further  expectation.  Some  year  or 
two  after,  hearing  that  it  was  become  void,  and  meeting 
with  that  fellow-chaplain  of  mine,  I  wished  him  much  joy 
of  that  prebend.  He  asked  me  if  it  were  void.  I  assured 
him  so ;  and  telling  him  of  the  former  answer  delivered  unto 
me  in  my  ignorance  of  his  engagements,  wished  him  to 
hasten  his  possession  of  it.  He  delayed  not.  When  he 
came  to  the  dean  of  Windsor  for  his  promised  dispatch, 
the  dean  brought  him  forth  a  letter  from  the  prince,  wherein 
he  was  desired  and  charged  to  reverse  his  former  engage¬ 
ment — since  that  other  chaplain  was  otherwise  provided 
for — and  to  cast  that  favor  upon  me.  I  was  sent  for — who 
least  thought  of  it — and  received  the  free  collation  of  that 
poor  dignity.  It  was  not  the  value  of  the  place — which 
was  but  nine  nobles  per  annum — that  we  aimed  at ;  but 
v  the  freedom  of  a  goodly  church,  consisting  of  a  dean  and 
eight  prebendaries  competently  endowed,  and  many  thou¬ 
sand  souls,  lamentably  swallowed  up  by  wilful  recusants, 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


XXXI II 


in  a  pretended  fee-farm  forever.  O  God,  what  an  hand 
badst  thou  in  the  carriage  of  this  work !  When  we  set 
foot  in  this  suit — for  another  of  the  prebendaries  joined 
with  me — we  knew  not  wherein  to  insist  nor  where  to 
ground  our  complaint ;  only  we  knew  that  a  goodly  patri¬ 
mony  was  by  sacrilegious  conveyance  detained  from  the 
church.  But  in  the  pursuit  of  it,  such  marvelous  light 
opened  itself  inexpectedly  to  us,  in  revealing  of  a  coun¬ 
terfeit  seal  found  in  the  ashes  of  that  burned  house  of  a 
false  register;  in  the  manifestation  of  rasures  and  interpo¬ 
lations  and  misdates  of  unjustifiable  evidences;  that  after 
many  years’  suit,  the  wise  and  honorable  Lord  Chancellor 
Ellesmere,  upon  a  full  hearing,  adjudged  these  two  sued- 
for  prebends  clearly  to  be  returned  to  the  church,  until  by 
common  law  they  could — if  possibly — be  revicted.  Our 
great  adversary,  Sir  Walter  Leveson,  finding  it  but  loss  and 
trouble  to  strive  for  litigious  sheaves,  came  off  to  a  peacea¬ 
ble  composition  with  me  of  forty  pounds  per  annum ;  for 
my  part  .whereof,  ten  should  be  to  the  discharge  of  my 
stall  in  that  church,  till  the  suit  should,  by  course  of  com¬ 
mon  law,  be  determined.  We  agreed  upon  fair  wars. 
The  cause  was  heard  at  the  King’s  Bench  bar,  where  a 
special  verdict  was  given  for  us.  Upon  the  death  of  my 
partner  in  the  suit — in  whose  name  it  had  been  brought — 
it  was  renewed ;  a  jury  empaneled  in  the  county ;  the 
foreman — who  had  vowed  he  would  carry  it  for  Sir  Wal¬ 
ter  Leveson  howsoever — was  before  the  day  stricken  mad 
and  so  continued.  We  proceeded  with  the  same  success 
we  formerly  had.  Whiles  we  were  thus  striving,  a  word 
fell  from  my  adversary  that  gave  me  information  that  a 
third  dog  would  perhaps  come  in  and  take  the  bone  from 
us  both :  which  I  finding  to  drive  at  a  supposed  conceal- 


c 


XXXIV 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


ment,  happily  prevented ;  for  I  presently  addressed  myself 
to  his  majesty,  with  a  petition  for  the  renewing  the  charter 
of  that  church  and  the  full  establishment  of  the  lands,  rights, 
liberties,  thereunto  belonging— -which  I  easily  obtained 
from  those  gracious  hands.  Now  Sir  Walter  Leveson,  see¬ 
ing  the  patrimony  of  the  church  so  fast  and  safely  settled, 
and  misdoubting  what  issue  those  his  crazy  evidences 
would  find  at  the  common  law,  began  to  incline  to  offers 
of  peace ;  and  at  last  drew  him  so  far  as  that  he  yielded  to 
those  two  many  conditions,  not  particularly  for  myself,  but 
for  the  whole  body  of  all  those  prebends  which  pertained 
to  the  church: — First,  that  he  would  be  content  to  cast  up 
that  fee-farm  which  he  had  of  all  the  patrimony  of  that 
church,  and  disclaiming  it,  receive  that  which  he  held  of 
the  said  church  by  lease  from  us  the  several  prebendaries, 
from  term,  whether  of  years,  or,  which  he  rather  desired, 
of  lives.  Secondly,  that  he  would  raise  the  maintenance 
of  every  prebend — whereof  some  were  but  forty  shillings, 
others  three  pounds,  others  four,  etc. — to  the  yearly  value 
of  thirty  pounds  for  each  man,  during  the  said  term  of  his 
lease:  only  for  the  monument  of  my  labor  and  success 
herein,  I  required  that  my  prebend  might  have  the  addition 
of  ten  pounds  per  annum  above  the  fellows.  We  were  busily 
treating  of  this  happy  match  for  that  poor  church ;  Sir  Wal¬ 
ter  Leveson  was  not  only  willing,  but  forward;  the  then 
dean,  Mr.  Antonius  de  Dominus,  Archbishop  of  Spalata, 
gave  both  way  and  furtherance  to  the  dispatch  ;  all  had 
been  most  happily  ended,  had  not  the  scrupulousness  of 
one  or  two  of  the  number  deferred  so  advantageous  a  con¬ 
clusion.  In  the  meanwhile,  Sir  Walter  Leveson  dies,  leav¬ 
ing  his  young  orphan,  ward  to  the  king.  All  our  hopes 
were  now  blown  up.  An  office  was  found  of  all  those 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


XXXV 


lands;  the  very  wonted  payments  were  denied;  and  I  call¬ 
ed  into  the  court  of  wards,  in  fair  likelihood  to  forego  my 
former  hold,  and  yielded  a  possession  ;  but  there  it  was 
justly  awarded  by  the  lord  treasurer,  then  master  of  the 
wards,  that  the  orphan  could  have  no  more,  no  other  right 
than  the  father.  I  was  therefore  left  in  my  former  state ; 
only  upon  public  complaint  of  the  hard  condition  wherein 
the  orphan  was  left,  I  suffered  myself  to  be  over-entreated 
to  abate  somewhat  of  that  evicted  composition.  Which 
work  having  once  firmly  settled,  in  a  just  pity  of  the  mean 
provision,  if  not  the  destitution  of  so  many  thousand  souls, 
and  a  desire  and  care  to  have  them  comfortably  provided 
for  in  the  future,  I  resigned  up  the  said  prebend  to  a  wor¬ 
thy  preacher,  Mr.  Lee,  who  should  constantly  reside  there 
and  painfully  instruct  that  great  and  long-neglected  people  ; 
which  he  hath  hitherto  performed  with  great  mutual  con¬ 
tentment  and  happy  success. 

Now  during  this  twenty-two  years1  which  I  spent  at 
Waltham,  thrice  was  I  commanded  and  employed  abroad 
by  his  Majesty  in  public  service.  First,  in  the  attendance 
of  the  Right  Honorable  the  earl  of  Carlisle,  then  Lord  Vis¬ 
count  Doncaster,  who  was  sent  upon  a  noble  embassy,  with 
a  gallant  retinue,  into  France;  whose  interment  there  the 
annals  of  that  nation  will  tell  to  posterity.  In  the  midst  of 
that  service  was  I  surprised  with  a  miserable  distemper  of 

1  He  is  said  by  all  his  biographers  to  have  retained  the  living  o 
Waltham  for  twenty-two  years,  and  this  assertion  is  founded  on  his 
own  words  in  his  ‘  Specialities but  as  he  expressed  the  time  in 
numerals  there  may  be  a  mistake  in  the  printing — for  if  he  remain¬ 
ed  at  Waltham  twenty-two  y&irs,  he  must  have  kept  that  living  af¬ 
ter  he  was  Bishop  of  Exeter,  which  is  not  very  probable,  especially 
as  we  find  there  were  three  incumbents  on  the  living  of  Waltham 
before  the  year  1637. — Chalmers. 


XXXVI 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


body,  which  ended  in  a  diarrhoea  biliosa,  not  without 
some  beginnings  and  further  threats  of  a  dysentery;  where- 
with  I  was  brought  so  low,  that  there  seemed  small  hopes 
of  my  recovery.  M.  Peter  Moulin,  to  whom  I  was  be¬ 
holding  for  his  frequent  visitations,  being  sent  by  my  lord 
ambassador  to  inform  him  of  my  estate,  brought  him  so 
sad  news  thereof,  as  that  he  was  much  afflicted  therewith, 
well  supposing  that  his  welcome  to  Waltham  could  not  but 
want  much  of  the  heart  without  me.  Now  the  time  of  his 
return  drew  on,  Dr.  Moulin  kindly  offered  to  remove  me, 
upon  his  lordship’s  departure,  to  his  own  house — promised 
me  all  careful  tendance.  I  thanked  him,  but  resolved  if  1 
could  but  creep  homewards,  to  put  myself  upon  the  jour¬ 
ney.  A  litter  wras  provided ;  but  of  so  little  ease,  that  Si¬ 
meon’s  penitential  lodging  or  a  malefactor’s  stocks  had 
been  less  penal.  I  crawled  down  from  my  close  chamber 
into  that  carriage  ‘In  qua  videbaris  mi  hi  efferri  tanquam  in 
sandapila,’1  as  Mr.  Moulin  wrote  to  me  afterward.  That 
misery  had  I  endured  all  the  long  passage  from  Paris  to 
Dieppe — being  left  alone  to  the  surly  muleteers — had  not 
my  good  God  brought  me  to  St.  Germains  upon  the  very 
minute  of  the  setting-out  of  those  coaches  which  had  staid 
there  upon  that  morning’s  entertainment  of  my  lord  am¬ 
bassador.  How  glad  was  J,  that  I  might  change  my  seat 
and  my  company  !  In  the  way,  beyond  all  expectation,  I 
began  to  gather  some  strength  ;  whether  the  fresh  air  or 
the  desires  of  my  home  revived  me,  so  much  and  so  sud¬ 
den  reparation  ensued  as  was  sensible  to  myself,  and  seem¬ 
ed  strange  to  others.  Being  shipped  at  Dieppe,  the  sea 
used  us  hardly,  and  after  a  night  and  a  great  part  of  the 
day  following,  sent  us  back  well  wind-beaten  to  that  bleak 


1  ‘  In  which  you  seem  to  me  to  be  borne  as  on  a  bier.’ — Ed. 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


XXXVII 


haven  whence  we  set  forth,  forcing  us  to  a  more  pleasing 
land-passage  through  the  coasts  of  Normandy  and  Picardy ; 
towards  the  end  whereof,  my  former  complaint  returned 
upon  me,  and  landing  with  me,  accompanied  me  to  and  at 
my  long-desired  home. 

In  this  my  absence,  it  pleased  his  Majesty  graciously  to 
confer  upon  me  the  deanery  of  Worcester;1  which  being 
promised  me  before  my  departure,  was  deeply  hazarded 
whiles  I  was  out  of  sight,  by  the  importunity  and  under¬ 
hand  working  of  some  great  ones.  Dr.  Field,  the  learned 
and  worthy  dean  of  Gloucester,  was  by  his  potent  friends 
put  in  such  assurances  of  it,  that  I  heard  where  he  took 
care  for  the  furnishing  that  ample  house.  But  God  fetched 
it  about  for  me,  in  that  absence  and  nescience  of  mine ; 
and  that  reverend  and  better-deserving  divine  was  well  sat¬ 
isfied  with  greater  hopes,  and  soon  after  exchanging  this 
mortal  estate  for  an  immortal  and  glorious.  Before  I  could 
go  down,  through  my  continuing  weakness,  to  take  posses¬ 
sion  of  that  dignity,  his  Majesty  pleased  to  design  me  to 
his  attendance  into  Scotland  ;2  where  the  great  love  and 
respect  that  I  found,  both  for  the  ministers  and  people, 
wrought  me  no  small  envy  from  some  of  our  own.  Upon 
a  commonly  received  supposition  that  his  Majesty  would 
have  no  further  use  of  his  chaplains  after  his  remove  from 
Edinburgh — forasmuch  as  the  divines  of  the  country, 
whereof  there  is  great  store  and  worthy  choice,  were  allot¬ 
ted  to  every  station — I  easily  obtained,  through  the  solici¬ 
tation  of  my  ever-honored  Lord  of  Carlisle,  to  return  with 
him  before  my  fellows.  No  sooner  wTas  I  gone,  than  sug- 

1  A.  D.  1616. — Sanford. 

2  “  Where  he  exerted  himself  in  support  of  Episcopacy  against' 
Presbyterianism.” — Life,  in  Edinb.  Brit.  Poets. 


XXXV111 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


gestions  were  made  to  his  Majesty  of  my  over-plausible 
demeanor  and  doctrine  to  that  already  prejudicate  people; 
for  which  his  Majesty,  after  a  gracious  acknowledgment  of 
my  good  service  there  done,  called  me  upon  his  return  to 
a  favorable  and  mild  account;  not  more  freely  professing 
wh^t  informations  had  been  given  against  me  than  his  own 
full  satisfaction  with  my  sincere  and  just  answer — as  whose 
excellent  wisdom  well  saw  that  such  winning  carriage  of 
mine  could  be  no  hinderance  to  those  his  great  designs.  At 
the  same  time,  his  Majesty  having  secret  notice  that  a  letter 
was  coming  to  me  from  Mr.  W.  Strother,  a  reverend  and 
learned  divine  of  Edinburgh,  concerning  the  Five  Points 
then  proposed  and  urged  to  the  church  of  Scotland,1  was 
pleased  to  impose  upon  me  an  earnest  charge  to  give  him 

1  The  Scots  ministers  understanding  that  the  king  designed  to 
bring  about  an  uniformity  between  the  churches  of  England  and 
Scotland,  appointed  one  Mr.  Wm.  Struthers,  a  divine  of  Edinburgh, 
to  preach  against  such  a  proceeding ;  who  in  his  sermon  in  the 
principal  church  of  Edinburgh,  not  only  condemned  the  rites  and 
ceremonies  of  the  church  of  England,  but  prayed  God  to  save  Scot¬ 
land  from  the  same. — [Heylin’s  Life  of  Laud,  p.  73,  Ed.  1688]. 

The  following  five  points  or  articles  were  then  proposed  and 
urged  to  the  kirk,  as  a  step  towards  producing  uniformity : — 1.  That 
the  holy  sacraments  should  be  received  kneeling.  2.  That  minis¬ 
ters  were  to  administer  the  sacrament  in  private  houses  to  the  sick, 
if  desired.  3.  That  ministers  were  to  baptize  children  privately  at 
home,  in  cases  of  necessity.  4.  That  ministers  should  bring  such 
children  of  their  parishes  as  could  say  the  Catechism,  the  Lord’s 
Prayer,  the  Creed,  and  the  Ten  Commandments,  to  the  Bishop  to 
be  confirmed.  5.  That  the  festivals  of  Christmas,  Easter,  Whit¬ 
sunday,  and  the  Ascension,  were  to  be  commemorated  in  the  kirk 
of  Scotland. — Jones. 

Mr.  Chalmers,  in  a  note  to  his  ‘  Life  of  Hall,’  has  confounded 
these  with  certain  other  ‘  five  points,’  somewhat  famous ;  but  about 
which  there  was,  in  this  case,  no  dispute. — Ed. 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL.  XXXIX 

a  fill]  answer  to  those  modest  doubts,  and  at  large  to  de¬ 
clare  my  judgment  concerning  those  required  observations ; 
which  I  speedily  performed,  with  so  great  approbation  of 
his  Majesty  that  it  pleased  him  to  command  a  transcript 
thereof,  as  I  was  informed,  publicly  read  in  their  most  fa¬ 
mous  university;  the  effect  whereof  his  Majesty  vouch¬ 
safed  to  signify  afterwards  unto  some  of  my  best  friends, 
with  allowance  beyond  my  hopes. 

It  was  not  long  after,  that  his  Majesty,  finding  the  exi¬ 
gence  of  the  affairs  of  the  Netherlandish  churches  to  re¬ 
quire  it,  both  advised  them  to  a  synodical  decision,  and  by 
his  incomparable  wisdom  promoted  the  work.  My  un¬ 
worthiness  was  named  for  one  of  the  assistants  of  that 
honorable,  grave  and  reverend  meeting  ;  where  I  failed  not 
of  my  best  service  to  that  woful,  distracted  church.1  By 
that  time  I  had  staid  some  two  months  there,  the  unquiet¬ 
ness  of  the  nights  in  those  garrison-towns,  working  upon 
the  tender  disposition  of  my  body,  brought  me  to  such 
weakness  through  want  of  rest,  that  it  began  to  disable  me 
from  attending  the  synod  ;  which  yet  as  I  might- — I  forc¬ 
ed  myself  unto,  as  wishing  that  my  zeal  could  have  dis¬ 
countenanced  my  infirmity:  where,  in  the  mean  time  it  is 
well  worthy  of  my  thankful  remembrance  that,  being  in  an 
afflicted  and  languishing  condition  for  a  fortnight  together, 
with  that  sleepless  distemper,  yet  it  pleased  God,  the  very 
night  before  I  was  to  preach  the  Latin  sermon  to  the  synod,’2 
to  bestow  upon  me  such  a  comfortable  refreshing  of  suffi¬ 
cient  sleep  as  whereby  my  spirits  were  revived,  and  I  was 
enabled  with  much  vivacity  to  perform  that  service;  which 
was  no  sooner  done,  than  my  former  complaint  renewed 


1  “  This  Synod  continued  from  Nov.  13,  1618,  to  May  29,  1619.” 

2  Preached  Nov.  29,  1618,  from  Eccl.  7:  16. 


x! 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


upon  me,  and  prevailed  against  all  the  remedies  that  the 
council  of  physicians  could  advise  me  unto ;  so  as  after 
long  strife,  I  was  compelled  to  yield  unto  retirement — for 
the  time — to  the  Hague,  to  see  if  change  of  place  and  more 
careful  attendance — which  I  had  in  the  house  of  our  right 
honorable  ambassador,  the  Lord  Carleton,now  viscount  Dor¬ 
chester, — might  recover  me.  But  when,  notwithstanding 
all  means,  my  weakness  increased  so  far  as  that  there  was 
small  likelihood  left  of  so  much  strength  remaining  as 
might  bring  me  back  into  England,  it  pleased  his  gracious 
majesty— by  our  noble  ambassador’s  solicitation — to  call  me 
off,  and  to  substitute  a  worthy  divine,  Mr.  Dr.  Goade,  in  my 
unwilling-forsaken  room.  Returning  by  Dort,  I  sent  in 
my  sad  farewell  to  that  grave  assembly  ;  who,  by  common 
vote,  sent  to  me  the  President  of  the  synod  and  the  assis¬ 
tants,  with  a  respective  and  gracious  valediction  :  neither 

did  the  deputies  of  my  Lords  the  States  neglect — after  a 

% 

very  respectful  compliment  sent  from  them  to  me,  by  Dan¬ 
iel  Heinsius — to  visit  me  ;  and  after  a  noble  acknowledge¬ 
ment  of  more  good  service  from  me  than  I  durst  own,  dis¬ 
missed  me  with  an  honorable  retribution,  and  sent  after 
me  a  rich  medal  of  gold — the  portraiture  of  the  synod — 
for  a  precious  monument  of  their  respects  to  my  poor  en¬ 
deavours  ;  who  failed  not,  whiles  I  was  at  the  Hague,  to 
impart  unto  them  my  poor  advice  concerning  that  synodi¬ 
cal  meeting.  The  difficulties  of  my  return,  in  such  weak- 
ness,  were  many  and  great ;  wherein,  if  ever,  God  mani¬ 
fested  his  special  providence  to  me,  in  overruling  the  cross 
accidents  of  that  passage,  and  after  many  dangers  and  de¬ 
spairs,  contriving  my  safe  arrival. 

After  not  many  years’  settling  at  home,  it  grieved  my 
soul  to  see  our  own  church  begin  to  sicken  of  the  same  dis- 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


xli 


ease  which  we  had  endeavored  to  cure  in  our  neighbors.1 2 
Mr.  Montague’s  tart  and  vehement  assertions  of  some  po¬ 
sitions  near  akin  to  the  Remonstrants  of  Netherlands  gave 
occasion  of  no  small  broil  in  the  church  ;  sides  were  taken  ; 
pulpits  every  where  rang  of  these  opinions :  but  parliament 
took  notice  of  the  division,  and  questioned  the  occasioner. 
Now  as  one  that  desired  to  do  all  good  offices  to  our  dear 
and  common  mother,  I  set  my  thoughts  on  work,  how  so 
dangerous  a  quarrel  might  be  happily  composed  ;  and  find¬ 
ing  that  mis-taking  was  more  guilty  of  this  dissention  than 
mis-believing — since  it  plainly  appeared  to  me  that  Mr. 
Montague  meant  to  express  not  Arminius  but  B.  Overall,3 
a  more  moderate  and  safe  author,  however  he  sped  in  de¬ 
livery  of  him — I  wrote  a  little  project  of  pacification  ; 
wherein  I  desired  to  rectify  the  judgment  of  men  concern¬ 
ing  this  misapprehended  controversy  ;  showing  them  the 
true  parties  in  this  unseasonable  plea.  And  because  B. 
Overall  went  a  midway  betwixt  the  two  opinions,  which 
he  held  extreme,  and  must  needs  therefore  differ  some¬ 
what  in  the  commonly  received  tenet  in  these  points,  I 
gathered  out  of  B.  Overall  on  the  one  side,  and  out  of  our 
English  divines  at  Dort  on  the  other,  such  common  prop¬ 
ositions  concerning  these  five  busy  articles  as  wherein  both 

1  Popery  now  began  to  gain  ground  in  many  places  ;  and  against 
this  the  good  Bishop’s  holy  zeal  was  always  more  excited  than  even 
against  “the  anarchical  fashion  of  independent  congregations.” — Ei>. 

2  Mr.  Richard  Mantaguc  of  Essex,  in  1623,  wrote  ‘  A  New  Gag 
for  an  old  Goose —a  satirical  reply  to  a  papist  hook  entitled  ‘A 
new  Gag  for  the  old  Gospel.’  He  was  not  an  easy  man  to  manage, 
hut  was  finally  silenced  by  the  superior  powers. — Ed. 

3  He  was  one  of  the  most  profound  school  divines  of  the  Eng¬ 
lish  nation.  He  was  employed  in  the  translation  of  the  Bible,  and 
wrote  the  sacramental  part  of  the  church  catechism. — Jones. 


♦ 

Xlii  SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 

of  them  were  fully  agreed  ;  all  which,  being  put  together, 
seemed  unto  me  to  make  up  so  sufficient  a  body  of  accord¬ 
ed  truth,  that  all  other  questions  moved  hereabouts,  ap¬ 
peared  merely  superfluous,  and  every  moderate  Christian 
might  find  where  to  rest  himself  without  hazard  of  con¬ 
tradiction.  These  I  made  bold,  by  the  hands  of  Dr.  Young, 
the  worthy  dean  of  Winchester,  to  present  to  his  excellent 
Majesty  ;  together  with  a  humble  motion  of  a  peaceable 
silence  to  be  enjoined  to  both  parts,  in  those  other  collat¬ 
eral  and  needless  disquisitions,  which,  if  they  might  befit 
the  schools  of  academical  disputants,  could  not  certainly 
sound  well  from  the  pulpits  of  popular  auditories.  Those 
reconciliatory  papers  fell  under  the  eyes  of  some  grave 
divines  on  both  parts.  Mr.  Montague  professed  that  he 
had  seen  them,  and  would  subscribe  to  them  very  willing¬ 
ly  :  others,  that  were  contrarily  minded,  both  English, 
Scottish,  and  French  divines,  proffered  their  hands  to  a  no 
less  ready  subscription ; — so  as  much  peace  promised  to 
result  out  of  that  weak  and  poor  enterprise,  had  not  the 
confused  noise  of  the  misconstructions  of  those  who  never 
saw  the  work — crying  it  down  for  the  very  name’s  sake — 
meeting  with  the  royal  edict  of  a  general  inhibition,  buried 
it  in  a  secure  silence.  I  was  scorched  a  little  with  this 
flame  which  I  desired  to  quench  ;  yet  this  could  not  stay 
my  hand  from  thrusting  itself  into  an  hotter  fire. 

Some  insolent  Romanists,  Jesuits  especially,  in  their 
bold  disputations — which  in  the  time  of  the  treaty  of  the 
Spanish  match,  and  the  calm  of  that  relaxation,  were  very 
frequent — pressed  nothing  so  much  as  a  catalogue  of  the 
professors  of  our  religion,  to  be  deduced  from  the  primi¬ 
tive  times ;  and  with  the  peremptory  challenge  of  the  im¬ 
possibility  of  this  pedigree,  dazzled  the  eyes  of  the  simple ; 


0 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL.  xliii 

s' 

whiles  some  of  our  learned  men,  undertaking  to  satisfy  so 
needless  and  unjust  a  demand,  gave,  as  I  conceive,  great 
advantage  to  the  adversary.  In  a  just  indignation  to  see 
us  thus  wronged  hy  misstating  the  question  betwixt  us,  as 
if  we,  yielding  ourselves  of  another  church,  originally  and 
fundamentally  different,  should  make  good  our  own  erec¬ 
tion  upon  the  ruins,  yea  the  nullity,  of  theirs ;  and  well 
considering  the  infinite  and  great  inconveniences  that  must 
needs  follow  upon  this  defence,  I  adventured  to  set  my 
pen  on  work;  desiring  to  rectify  the  opinions  of  those 
men  whom  an  ignorant  zeal  had  transported  to  the  preju¬ 
dice  of  our  holy  cause  ;  laying  forth  the  damnable  corrup¬ 
tions  of  the  Roman  church,  yet  making  our  game  at  the 
outward  visibility  thereof,  and  by  this  means  putting  them 
to  the  probation  of  those  newly-obtruded  corruptions  which 
are  truly  guilty  of  the  breach  betwixt  us  : — the  drift  where¬ 
of  being  not  well  conceived  by  some  spirits  that  were  not 
so  wise  as  fervent,  I  was  suddenly  exposed  to  the  rash 
censures  of  many  well-afiected  and  zealous  Protestants ; 
as  if  a  remission  to  my  wonted  zeal  to  the  truth  attributed 
too  much  to  the  Romish  church,  and  strengthened  the  ad- 
*  versaries’ hands  and  weakened  our  own.  This  envy  I  was 
fain  to  take  off  by  my  speedy  Apologetical  Advertisement, 
and  after  that  by  my  Reconciler,  seconded  with  the  unan¬ 
imous  letters  of  such  reverend,  learned,  sound  divines, 
both  bishops  and  doctors,1  as  whose  undoubtable  authority 
was  able  to  bear  down  calumny  itself.  Which  done,  I  did 
by  a  seasonable  moderation  provide  for  the  peace  of  the 
church,  in  silencing  both  my  defendants  and  challengers  in 
this  unkind  and  ill-raised  quarrel.  Immediately  before  the 
publishing  of  this  tractate — which  did  not  a  little  aggra- 


1  Bishops  Morton  and  Davenant,  Drs.  Prideaux  and  Primrose. 


xliv 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


vate  the  envy  and  suspicion — T  was  by  his  Majesty  raised 
to  be  Bishop  of  Exeter;1  having  formerly,  with  much 
humble  deprecation,  refused  the  see  of  Gloucester,  earn¬ 
estly  proffered  unto  me.2  How  beyond  all  expectation  it 
pleased  God  to  place  me  in  that  western  charge,  which,  if 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham’s  letters — he  being  then  in 
France — had  arrived  some  hours  sooner,  I  had  been  de¬ 
feated  of ;  and  by  what  strange  means  it  pleased  God  to 
make  up  the  competency  of  that  provision  by  the  un- 
thought-of  addition  of  the  rectory  of  St.  Breok  within  that 
diocese  ;  if  I  should  fully  relate  the  circumstances  would 
force  the  confession  of  an  extraordinary  hand  of  God  in 
the  disposing  of  these  events.  I  entered  upon  that  place, 
not  without  much  prejudice  and  suspicion  on  some  hands  ; 
for  some  that  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  church  had  me  in 
great  jealousy  for  too  much  favor  of  puritanism.  I  soon 
had  intelligence  who  were  set  over  me  for  espials :  my 
ways  were  curiously  observed  and  scanned.  However,  I 
took  the  resolution  to  follow  those  courses  which  might 
most  conduce  to  the  peace  and  happiness  of  my  new 
and  weighty  charge.  Finding  therefore  some  factious 
spirits  very  busy  in  that  diocese,  I  used  all  fair  and  gentle 
means  to  win  them  to  good  order,  and  therein  so  happily 
prevailed,  that — saving  two  of  that  numerous  clergy  who, 
continuing  in  their  refractoriness,  fled  away  from  censure — 
they  were  all  perfeetty  reclaimed  :  so  as  I  had  not  one  min¬ 
ister  professedly  opposite  to  the  anciently  received  orders 
— for  I  was  never  guilty  of  urging  any  new  impositions — 
of  the  church,  in  that  large  diocese.  Thus  we  wrent  on 
comfortably  together,  till  some  persons  of  note  in  the  cler- 

1  1627  :  consecrated  Dec  23. — Chalmers. 

2  By  King  James,  in  1624. — Life,  Ed.  Br.  Po. 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


xlv 


gy,  being  guilty  of  their  own  negligence  and  disorderly 
courses,  began  to  envy  our  success ;  and  finding  ine  ever 
ready  to  encourage  those  whom  I  found  conscionably  for¬ 
ward,  and  painful  in  their  places,  and  willingly  giving  way 
to  orthodox  and  peaceable  lectures  in  several  parts  of  my 
diocese,  opened  their  mouths  against  me,  both  obliquely  in 
the  pulpit  and  directly  at  the  court;  complaining  of  my 
too  much  indulgence  of  persons  disaffected,  and  my  too 
much  liberty  of  frequent  lecturing  within  my  charge.  The 
billows  went  so  high  that  I  was  three  several  times  upon 
my  knee  to  his  Majesty,  to  answer  these  great  criminations : 
and  what  contestation  I  had  with  some  great  Lords  con¬ 
cerning  these  particulars,  it  would  be  too  long  to  report — 
only  this,  under  how  dark  a  cloud  I  was  hereupon,  I  was 
so  sensible,  that  I  plainly  told  the  Lord  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury1  that  rather  than  I  would  be  obnoxious  to  those 
slanderous  tongues  of  his  misinformers,  I  would  cast  up 
my  rochet  :'2  I  knew  I  went  right  ways,  arid  would  not  en¬ 
dure  to  live  under  undeserved  suspicions.  What  letters  of 
caution  I  had  from  some  of  my  wary  brethren,  and  what 
expostulatory  letters  I  had  from  above,  I  need  not  relate. 
Sure  I  am,  I  had  peace  and  comfort  at  home,  in  that  hap¬ 
py  sense  of  that  general  unanimity  and  loving  correspond¬ 
ence  of  my  clergy,  till  in  the  last  year  of  my  presiding 
there,  alter  th<  synodical  oath  was  set  on  foot — which  yet 
I  did  never  tender  to  any  one  minister  of  my  diocese — by 
the  incitation  of  some  busy  interlopers  of  the  neighbor 
county,  some  of  them  began  to  enter  into  an  unkind  con¬ 
testation  with  me  about  the  election  of  clerks  for  the  con¬ 
vocation  ;  whom  they  secretly,  without  ever  acquainting  me 
with  their  desire  or  purpose — as  driving  to  that  end  which 


1  Laud. 


2  i.  e.  surplice. 


xlvi 


SPECIALITIES  IN  THE 


we  see  now  accomplished — would  needs  nominate  and  set 
up  in  competition  to  those  whom  1  had — after  the  usual 
form — recommended  to  them.  That  they  had  a  right  to 
free  voices  in  that  choice,  I  denied  not ;  only  I  had  reason 
to  take  it  unkindly,  that  they  would  work  underhand,  with¬ 
out  me  and  against  me  ;  professing  that  if  beforehand  they 
had  made  their  desires  known  to  me,  I  should  willingly 
have  gone  along  with  them  in  their  election.  It  came  to 
the  poll :  those  of  my  nomination  carried  it :  the  parlia¬ 
ment  begun.  After  some  hard  tugging  there,  returning 
home  upon  a  recess,  I  was  met  by  the  way,  and  cheerfully 
welcomed  with  some  hundreds.  In  no  worse  terms,  I  left 
that  my  once  dear  diocese  ;  when,  returning  to  Westmins¬ 
ter,  I  was  soon  called  by  his  Majesty — who  was  then  in  the 
north — to  a  remove  to  Norwich  d  but  how  I  took  the  tower 
in  my  way,1 2  and  how  I  have  been  dealt  with  since  my  re¬ 
pair  hither,  I  could  be  lavish  in  the  sad  report ;  ever  desir¬ 
ing  my  good  God  to  enlarge  my  heart  in  thankfulness  to 
him  for  the  sensible  experience  I  have  had  of  his  fatherly 
hand  over  me  in  the  deepest  of  all  my  afflictions,  and  to 
strengthen  me  for  whatsoever  other  trials  he  shall  he  pleas¬ 
ed  to  call  me  unto — that  being  found  faithful  unto  the 
death,  I  may  obtain  that  crown  of  life  which  he  hath  or¬ 
dained  for  all  those  that  overcome  ! 


Thus  far  the  good  Bishop’s  own  account  of  himself; — 
meagre,  indeed,  from  an  excessive  modesty  that  would 


1  Nov.  15,  1641. — Chalmers. 

2  Bishop  Hall  was  one  of  the  twelve  prelates  sent  to  the  tower 
Dec.  30,  1641,  on  a  charge  of  high  treason,  for  issuing  a  ‘protest 
against  the  validity  of  such  laws  as  should  be  made  during  their 
compelled  absence  from  parliament.’ — Ed. 


LIFE  OF  BISHOP  IIALL. 


xlvii 


not  record  many  of  those  events  of  his  life  which  have  re¬ 
flected  great  honor  on  himself,  and  conferred  lasting  ben¬ 
efit  on  his  age  and  the  world.  His  ‘  Specialities  ’  is  repub¬ 
lished,  with  a  few  explanatory  notes — rather  than  a  com¬ 
piled  sketch  of  his  life — both  for  its  intrinsic  interest,  and 
for  the  characteristic  traits  it  reveals  of  its  author. 

The  limits  of  this  volume  do  not  admit  of  a  fuller 
memoir.  The  reader  who  would  know  more  of  him 
is  referred  to  a  very  circumstantial  account  of  the  man 
and  of  the  part  he  took  in  the  stirring  events  of  his 
latter  years,  entitled  “  Bishop)  Hall, — his  Life  and  Times ; 
by  the  Rev.  John  Jones.”  London  1826.  From  this  work 
has  been  drawn  some  Qf  the  matter  contained  in  the  notes 
to  the  ‘  Specialities,’  and  to  it,  mainly,  are  we  indebted  for 
the  few  particulars  which  follow. 

Bishop  Hall  was  confined  in  the  tower,  with  the  exception 
of  one  short  interval,  until  May  5th,  1642  ;  and  was  then  re¬ 
leased  only  on  giving  bail  for  five  thousand  pounds.  In  the 
mean  time  parliament  had  issued  an  order  for  the  forfeiture 
of  all  his  spiritual  revenues,  save  only  four  hundred  pounds  a 
year;  which,  with  wonderful  magnanimity,  was  allowed  for 
the  maintenance  of  himself  and  family :  but  of  a  great  part 
even  of  this,  he  was  defrauded  by  the  violence  and  cupidity 
of  his  persecutors.  In  the  tower,  he  preached  and  wrote 
with  his  usual  industry ;  and  on  his  release,  immediately 
recommenced  pjreaching  in  Norwich  to  crowded  audiences. 
This  he  continued  till  near  the  beginning  of  April,  1643, 
when  the  order  was  passed  by  parliament  for  sequestering 
the  property  of  certain  ‘  notorious  delinquents,’  among 
whom  Bishop)  Hall  was  included  by  name.  The  rents  due 
from  his  tenants  were  not  allowed  to  be  paid  him;  his 
dwelling  was  violently  entered ;  his  goods  ransacked  and 


xlviii 


LIFE  .OF  BISHOP  HALL. 


plundered  by  disorderly  soldiers ;  and  it  was  only  by  the 
kind  interposition  of  personal  friends — who  generously 
advanced  the  sum  at  which  they  were  valued — that  he 
retained  his  household  furniture,  his  library,  or  even  the 
portraits  of  his  children.  The  amount  advanced,  he  after¬ 
wards  repaid  out  of  the  ‘poor  pittance  of  fifths’  allowed 
for  the  maintenance  <  f  his  family. 

After  this,  his  house  was  several  times  assaulted  by 
rioters,  and  on  the  tenth  of  June  1644,  the  cathedral  church 
‘  bordering  upon  it’  was  finally  demolished  ‘  by  authority’ ; 
with  its  fine  painted  windows,  its  organ,  its  monuments, 
and  the  various  apparatus  of  episcopal  service.  After  a 
little  time  passed  in  fear,  anxiety,  and  real  danger,  the 
Bishop  and  his  family  were,  on  some  frivolous  pretence, 
driven  from  his  dwelling;  ‘so  as’ — he  complains  in  his 
‘Hard  Measure’ — ‘we  might  have  lien  in  the  street  for 
aught  I  know,  had  not  the  providence  of  God  so  ordered 
it  that  a  neighbor  in  the  close,  one  Mr.  Gostlin,  a  widower, 
was  content  to  void  his  house  for  us.’ 

After  the  publication  of  his  ‘  Hard  Measure,’  May,  1647 — 
which  enlightened  the  public  as  to  his  unjust  treatment 
and  severe  sufferings — a  little  more  favor  seems  to  have 
been  shown  him  ;  but  he  never  returned  to  his  family  man¬ 
sion. 

The  remaining  years  of  his  life  were  passed  in  a  small 
house  which  he  rented,  at  Iligham,  one  of  the  suburbs  of 
Norwich.  He  continued  to  preach  in  Norwich  and  the  vi¬ 
cinity,  at  least  until  he  entered  on  his  eightieth  year ;  and 
after  that  was  ‘  as  diligent  a  hearer  as  he  had  been  a  preach¬ 
er.’  To  the  last,  he  was  remarkable  for  his  mental  vigor, 
his  industry,  his  charity,  his  humility  and  fervent  piety.  He 
died  Sept.  8,  1656,  at  the  good  old  age  of  eighty-two. 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS, 

DIVINE  AND  MORAL: 


SERVING  FOR  DIRECTION  IN  CHRISTIAN  AND  CIVIL  PRACTICE. 


THREE  CENTURIES. 


■  ..  :  ' 


* 

.■■•-.■'Ll. 

•  4r 


I 


. 

- 


♦ 


1  *T, 


* 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


CENTUM  I. 


i. 

In  meditation,  those  which  begin  heavenly  thoughts 
and  prosecute  them  not,  are  like  those  which  kindle  a  fire 
under  green  wood,  and  leave  it  so  soon  as  it  but  begins  to 
flame  ;  leesing  the  hope  of  a  good  beginning  for  want  of 
seconding  it  with  a  suitable  proceeding.  When  I  set 
myself  to  meditate,  I  will  not  give  over  till  I  come  to  an 
issue.  It  hath  been  said  by  some  that  the  beginning  is 
as  much  as  the  middest ; — yea,  more  than  all.  But  I  say 
the  ending  is  more  than  the  beginning. 

II. 

There  is  nothing  but  man  that  respecteth  greatness. 
Not  God,  not  death,  not  judgment.  Not  God ;  he  is  no 
accepter  of  persons.  Not  nature ;  we  see  the  sons  of 
princes  born  as  naked  as  the  poorest ;  and  the  poor  child 
as  fair,  well-favored,  strong,  witty,  as  the  heir  of  nobles. 
Not  disease,  death,  judgment;  they  sicken  alike,  die 
alike,  fare  alike  after  death.  There  is  nothing  besides 
natural  men,  of  whom  goodness  is  not  respected.  I  will 


4 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


honor  greatness  in  others  ;  but  for  myself,  I  will  esteem 
a  dram  of  goodness  worth  a  whole  world  of  greatness. 


m. 

As  there  is  a  foolish  wisdom,  so  there  is  a  wise  igno¬ 
rance  ;  in  not  prying  into  God’s  ark  ;  not  inquiring  into 
things  not  revealed.  I  would  fain  know  all  that  I  need 
and  all  that  I  may  :  I  leave  God’s  secrets  to  himself.  It 
is  happy  for  me  that  God  makes  me  of  his  court,  though 
not  of  his  council. 


IV. 

As  there  is  no  vacuity  in  nature,  no  more  is  there 
spiritually.  Every  vessel  is  full ;  if  not  of  liquor,  yet  of 
air.  So  is  the  heart  of  man  ;  though,  by  nature,  it  is 
empty  of  grace,  yet  it  is  full  of  hypocrisy  and  iniquity. 
Now  as  it  is  filled  with  grace,  so  it  is  empty  of  his  evil 
qualities :  as  in  a  vessel,  so  much  water  as  goes  in,  so 
much  air  goes  out.  But  man’s  heart  is  a  narrow-mouth¬ 
ed  vessel  and  receives  grace  but  by  drops  ;  and  therefore 
takes  a  long  time  to  empty  and  fill.  Now  as  there  be 
differences  in  degrees,  and  one  heart  is  nearer  to  fullness 
than  another,  so  the  best  vessel  is  not  quite  full  while  it 
is  in  the  body  ;  because  there  are  still  remainders  of  cor¬ 
ruption.  I  will  neither  be  content  with  that  measure  of 
grace  I  have,  nor  impatient  of  God’s  delay  ;  but  every 
day  I  will  endeavor  to  have  one  drop  added  to  the  rest ; 
so  my  last  day  shall  fill  up  my  vessel  to  the  brim. 

V. 

Satan  would  seem  to  be  mannerly  and  reasonable  ; 
making  as  if  he  would  be  content  with  one  half  of  the 


CENTURY  I. 


5 


heart,  whereas  God  challengeth  all  or  none :  as  indeed 
he  hath  most  reason  to  claim  all,  that  made  all.  But 
this  is  nothing  but  a  crafty  fetch  of  Satan ;  for  he  knows 
that  if  he  have  any  part,  God  will  have  none ;  so  the 
whole  falleth  to  his  share  alone.  My  heart,  when  it  is 
both  whole  and  at  the  best,  is  but  a  strait  and  unworthy 
lodging  for  God.  If  it  were  bigger  and  better,  I  would 
reserve  it  all  for  him.  Satan  may  look  in  at  my  doors 
by  a  tentation,  but  he  shall  not  have  so  much  as  one 
chamber-room  set  apart  for  him  to  sojourn  in. 

VI. 

I  see  that  in  natural  motions,  the  nearer  anything 
comes  to  his  end  the  swifter  it  moveth.  I  have  seen 
great  rivers,  which,  at  their  first  rising  out  of  some  hill’s 
side,  might  be  covered  with  a  bushel ;  which,  after  many 
miles,  fill  a  very  broad  channel,  and  drawing  near  to  the 
sea,  do  even  make  a  little  sea  in  their  own  banks.  So 
the  wind,  at  the  first  rising,  as  a  little  vapor  from  the 
crannies  of  the  earth,  and  passing  forward  about  the 
earth,  the  further  it  goes  the  more  blustering  and  violent 
it  waxeth.  A  Christian’s  motion,  after  he  is  regenerate, 
is  made  natural  to  God-ward ;  and  therefore  the  nearer 
he  comes  to  heaven,  the  more  zealous  he  is.  A  good 
man  must  not  be  like  Hezekiah’s  sun,  that  went  back¬ 
ward  ;  nor  like  Joshua’s  sun,  that  stood  still ;  but  Da¬ 
vid’s  sun  that  like  a  bridegroom  comes  out  of  his  cham¬ 
ber,  and  as  a  champion  rejoiceth  to  run  his  race  :  only 
herein  is  the  difference,  that  when  he  comes  to  his  high 
noon,  he  declinetli  not.  However,  therefore,  the  mind 
in  her  natural  faculties  follows  the  temperature  of  the 
body,  yet  in  these  supernatural  things  she  quite  crosses 


6 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


it.  For  with  the  coldest  complection  of  age  is  joined,  in 
those  that  are  truly  religious,  the  ferventest  zeal  and  af¬ 
fection  to  good  things  ;  which  is  therefore  the  more  reve¬ 
renced  and  better  acknowledged,  because  it  cannot  be 
ascribed  to  the  hot  spirits  of  youth.  The  devil  himself 
devised  that  old  slander  of  early  holiness — “  A  young 
Saint,  an  old  Devil.”  Sometimes  young  devils  have 
proved  old  saints  ;  never  the  contrary  ;  but  true  saints 
in  youth  do  always  prove  angels  in  their  age.  I  will 
strive  to  be  ever  good ;  but  if  I  should  not  find  myself 
f  best  at  last,  I  should  fear  I  was  never  good  at  all. 

VII. 

Consent  hearteneth  sin,  which  a  little  dislike  would 
have  daunted  at  first.  As  we  say  “  There  would  be  no 
thieves  if  no  receivers  so  would  there  not  be  so  many 
open  mouths  to  detract  and  slander,  if  there  were  not  so 
many  open  ears  to  entertain  them.  If  I  cannot  stop  another 
man’s  mouth  from  speaking  ill,  I  will  either  open  my 
mouth  to  reprove  it,  or  else  I  will  stop  mine  ears  from 
hearing  it ;  and  let  him  see  in  my  face  that  he  hath  no 
room  in  my  heart. 

VIII. 

I  have  oft  wondered  how  fishes  can  retain  their 
fresh  taste,  and  yet  live  in  salt  waters  ;  since  I  see  that 
every  other  thing  participates  of  the  nature  of  the  place 
wherein  it  abides.  So  the  waters  passing  thorough  the 
channels  of  the  earth  vary  their  savor  with  the  veins  of 
soil  through  which  they  slide.  So  brute  creatures,  trans¬ 
ported  from  one  region  to  another,  alter  their  former 
quality  and  degenerate  by  little  and  little.  The  like 


CENTURY  I. 


7 


danger  I  have  seen  in  the  manners  of  men  conversing 
with  evil  companions  in  corrupt  places.  For  besides 
that  it  blemisheth  our  reputation,  and  maketh  us  thought 
ill  though  we  be  good,  it  breeds  in  us  an  insensible  de¬ 
clination  to  ill ;  and  works  in  us,  if  not  an  approbation, 
yet  a  less  dislike  of  those  sins  to  which  our  ears  and  eyes 
are  so  continually  inured.  I  may  have  a  bad  acquain¬ 
tance  :  I  will  never  have  a  wicked  companion. 

IX. 

Expectation,  in  a  weak  mind,  makes  an  evil  greater 
and  a  good  less  ;  but  in  a  resolved  mind,  it  digests  an 
evil  before  it  come,  and  makes  a  future  good  long  be¬ 
fore  present.  I  will  expect  the  worst,  because  it  may 
come  ;  the  best,  because  I  know  it  will  come. 

X. 

Some  promise  what  they  cannot  do ;  as  Satan  to 
Christ.  Some,  what  they  could,  but  mean  not  to  do  ;  as 
the  sons  of  Jacob  to  the  Shechemites.  Some,  what  they 
meant  for  the  time,  and  after  retract ;  as  Laban  to 
Jacob.  Some,  what  they  do  also  give,  but  unwillingly ; 
as  Herod.  Some,  what  they  willingly  give,  and  after 
repent  them ;  as  Joshua  to  the  Gibeonites.  So  great 
distrust  is  there  in  man,  whether  from  his  impo¬ 
tence  or  faithlessness.  As  in  other  things,  so  in  this, 
I  see  God  is  not  like  man  ;  but  in  whatever  he  promises, 
he  approves  himself  most  faithful  both  in  his  ability  and 
performances.  I  will  therefore  ever  trust  God  on  his 
bare  word ;  even  with  hope,  besides  hope,  above  hope, 
against  hope  ;  and  onwards  I  will  rely  on  him  for  small 
matters  of  this  life.  For  how  shall  I  hope  to  trust  him 


8 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


in  impossibilities,  if  I  may  not  in  likelihoods  ?  How 
shall  I  depend  on  him  for  raising  my  body  from  dust  and 
saving  my  soul,  if  I  mistrust  him  for  a  crust  of  bread  to¬ 
wards  my  preservation  ? 


XL 

If  the  world  would  make  me  his  minion,  he  could 
give  me  but  what  he  hath.  And  what  hath  he  to  give  ? 
But  a  smoke  of  honor,  a  shadow  of  riches,  a  sound  of 
pleasures,  a  blast  of  fame.  Which  when  I  have  had  in 
the  best  measure,  I  may  be  worse, — I  cannot  be  better : 
I  can  live  no  whit  longer,  no  whit  merrier,  no  whit  hap¬ 
pier.  If  he  profess  to  hate  me,  what  can  he  do,  but  dis¬ 
grace  me  in  my  name,  impoverish  me  in  my  estate,  af¬ 
flict  me  in  my  body  ?  In  all  which,  it  is  easy  not  to  be 
ever  the  more  miserable.  I  have  been  too  long  beguiled 
with  the  vain  semblances  of  it :  now,  henceforth,  account¬ 
ing  myself  born  to  a  better  world,  I  will,  in  a  holy  loft¬ 
iness,  bear  myself  as  one  too  good  to  be  enamoured  of 
the  best  pleasures,  to  be  daunted  with  the  greatest  mis¬ 
eries,  of  this  life. 

XII. 

II  see  there  is  no  man  so  happy  as  to  have  all  things  ; 
and  no  man  so  miserable  as  not  to  have  some.  Why 
should  I  look  for  a  better  condition  than  all  others  ?  If 
I  have  somewhat,  and  that  of  the  best  things,  I  will  in 
thankfulness  enjoy  them,  and  want  the  rest  with  con¬ 
tentment. 


XIII. 

Constraint  makes  an  easy  thing  toilsome,  whereas  again 


CENTURY  I. 


9 


love  makes  the  greatest  toil  pleasant.  How  many  miles 
do  we  ride  and  run,  to  see  one  silly  beast  follow  an¬ 
other,  with  pleasure  !  which  if  we  were  commanded  to> 
measure,  upon  the  charge  of  a  superior,  we  should  com¬ 
plain  of  weariness.  I  see  the  folly  of  the  most  men,  that 
make  their  lives  miserable  and  their  actions  tedious,  for 
want  of  love  to  that  they  must  do*-  I  will  first  labor  to 
settle  in  my  heart  a  good  affection  to  heavenly  things : 
so,  Lord,  thy  yoke  shall  be  easy  and  thy  burden  light. 

XIV. 

I  am  a  stranger  even  at  home :  therefore,  if  the  dogs 
of  the  world  bark  at  me,  I  neither  care  nor  wonder. 

XV. 

* 

It  is  the  greatest  madness  in  the  world,  to  be  an  hypo¬ 
crite  in  religious  profession.  Men  hate  thee,  because 
thou  art  a  Christian,  so  much  as  in  appearance.  God 
hates  thee  double,  because  thou  art  but  in  appearance : 
so,  while  thou  hast  the  hatred  of  both,  thou  hast  no  com¬ 
fort  in  thyself.  Yet  if  thou  wilt  not  be  good  as  thou 
seemest,  I  hold  it  better  to  seem  ill  as  thou  art.  An 
open  wicked  man  doth  much  hurt  with  notorious  sins, 
but  an  hypocrite  doth,  at  last,  more  shame  goodness  by 
seeming  good.  I  had  rather  be  an  open  wicked  man 
than  an  hypocrite ;  but  I  had  rather  be  no  man  than 
either  of  them. 


XVI. 

When  I  east  down  mine  eyes  upon  my  wants,  upon  my 
sins,  upon  my  miseries,  methinks  no  man  should  be  worse, 
no  man  so  ill  as  I ; — my  means  so  many,  so  forcible  and  al- 


10 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


most  violent ;  my  progress  so  small  and  insensible  :  my 
corruptions  so  strong  ;  my  infirmities  so  frequent  and  re¬ 
mediless  ;  my  body  so  unanswerable  to  my  mind.  But 
when  I  look  up  to  the  blessings  that  God  hath  enriched 
me  withal,  methinks  I  should  soon  be  induced  to  think 
none  more  happy  than  myself.  God  is  my  friend  and 
my  father  ;  the  world  not  my  master,  but  my  slave  ;  I 
have  friends  not  many,  but  so  tried  that  I  dare  trust  them; 
an  estate  not  superfluous,  not  needy,  yet  nearer  to  de¬ 
fect  than  abundance  ;  a  calling,  if  despised  of  men,  yet 
honorable  with  God ;  a  body,  not  so  strong  as  to  admit 
security — but  often  checking  me  in  occasion  of  pleasure, 
— nor  yet  so  weak  as  to  afflict  me  continually ;  a  mind, 
not  so  furnished  with  knowledge  that  I  may  boast  of  it, 
nor  yet  so  naked  that  I  should  despair  of  obtaining  it. 
My  miseries  afford  me  joy  ;  mine  enemies,  advantage ; 
my  account  is  cast  up  for  another  world.  And  if  thou 
think  I  have  said  too  much  good  of  myself,  either  I  am 
thus,  or  I  would  be. 

XVII. 

The  worldling’s  life  is,  of  all  other,  most  discomforta¬ 
ble.  For  that  which  is  his  God  doth  not  always  favor 
him  ;  that  which  should  be,  never. 

XVIII. 

There  are  three  messengers  of  death, — Casualty, 
Sickness,  Age.  The  two  first  are  doubtful,  since 
many  have  recovered  them  both.  The  last  is  cer¬ 
tain.  The  two  first  are  sudden  ;  the  last,  leisurely  and 
deliberate.  As  for  all  men,  upon  so  many  summons,  so 
especially  for  an  old  man,  it  is  a  shame  to  be  unprepar- 


CENTURY  I. 


11 


ed  for  death  :  for  where  other  see  they  may  die,  he  sees 
he  must  die.  I  was  long  agone  old  enough  to  die  ;  but 
if  I  live  till  age,  I  will  think  myself  too  old  to  live  lon¬ 
ger. 

XIX. 

I  will  not  care  what  I  have,  whether  much  or  little. 
If  little,  my  account  shall  be  less  ;  if  more,  I  shall  do  the 
more  good  and  receive  the  more  glory. 

XX. 

I  care  not  for  any  companion  but  such  as  may  teach 
me  somewhat  or  learn  somewhat  of  me.  Both  these 
shall  much  pleasure  me — one  as  an  agent,  the  other  as 
a  subject  to  work  upon  :  neither  know  I  whether  more. 
For  though  it  be  an  excellent  thing  to  learn,  yet  I  learn 
but  to  teach  others. 

XXI. 

If  earth,  that  is  provided  for  mortality  and  is  possess¬ 
ed  by  the  Maker’s  enemies,  have  so  much  pleasure  in  it 
that  worldlings  think  it  worth  the  account  of  their  hea¬ 
ven  ;  such  a  sun  to  enlighten  it,  such  an  heaven  to  wall  it 
about,  such  sweet  fruits  and  flowers  to  adorn  it,  such  va- 
.  riety  of  creatures  for  the  commodious  use  of  it ; — what 
must  Heaven  needs  be,  that  is  provided  for  God  himself 
and  his  friends  ?  How  can  it  be  less  in  worth  than  God 
is  above  his  creatures,  and  God’s  friends  better  than  his 
enemies  ?  I  will  not  only  be  content,  but  desirous  to  be 
dissolved. 


12 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


XXII. 

It  is  commonly  seen  that  boldness  puts  men  forth  be¬ 
fore  their  time,  before  their  ability.  Wherein  we  have 
seen  many  that,  like  lapwings  and  partridges,  have  run 
away  with  some  part  of  their  shell  on  their  heads : 
whence  it  follows  that  as  they  began  boldly,  so  they  pro¬ 
ceed  unprofitably,  and  conclude  not  without  shame.  I 
would  rather  be  haled  by  force  of  others  to  great  duties, 
than  rush  upon  them  unbidden.  It  were  better  a  man 
should  want  work,  than  that  great  works  should  want  a 
man  answerable  to  their  weight. 

XXIII. 

I  will  use  my  friend  as  Moses  did  his  rod.  While  it 
was  a  rod,  he  held  it  familiarly  in  his  hand ;  when  once 
a  serpent,  he  ran  away  from  it. 

XXIV. 

I  have  seldom  seen  much  ostentation  and  much  learn¬ 
ing  met  together.  The  sun,  rising  and  declining,  makes 
long  shadows  ;  at  midday,  when  he  is  at  highest,  none 
at  all.  Besides  that,  skill  when  it  is  too  much  shown, 
loseth  the  grace  ;  as  fresh-colored  wares,  if  they  be  often 
opened,  lose  their  brightness  and  are  soiled  with  much 
handling.  I  had  rather  applaud  myself  for  having  much 
that  I  show  not,  than  that  others  should  applaud  me  for 
showing  more  than  I  have. 

XXV. 

An  ambitious  man  is  the  greatest  enemy  to  himself  of 
any  in  the  world  besides  ;  for  he  still  torments  himself 


CENTURY  I. 


13 


with  hopes  and  desires  and  cares,  which  he  might  avoid 
if  he  wTould  remit  of  the  height  of  his  thoughts  and  live 
quietly.  My  only  ambition  shall  be,  to  rest  in  God’s  fa¬ 
vor  on  earth  and  to  be  a  saint  in  heaven. 

XXVI. 

There  was  never  good  thing  easily  come  by.  The 
heathen  man  could  say,  God  sells  knowledge  for  sweat ; 
and  so  he  doth  honor,  for  jeopardy.  Never  any  man 
hath  got  either  wealth  or  learning  with  ease.  Therefore 
the  greatest  good  must  needs  be  most  difficult.  How 
shall  I  hope  to  get  Christ,  if  I  take  no  pains  for  him  ? 
And  if,  in  all  other  things,  the  difficulty  of  obtaining 
whets  the  mind  so  much  the  more  to  seek,  why  should  it 
in  this  alone  daunt  me  ?  I  will  not  care  what  I  do,  what 
I  suffer,  so  I  may  win  Christ.  If  men  can  endure  such 
cutting,  such  lancing  and  searing  of  their  bodies,  to  pro¬ 
tract  a  miserable  life  yet  a  while  longer,  what  pain  should 
I  refuse  for  eternity  ! 

XXVII. 

If  I  die,  the  world  shall  miss  me  but  a  little  ;  I  shall 
miss  it  less.  Not  it  me,  because  it  hath  such  store  of 
better  men.  Not  I  it,  because  it  hath  so  much  ill  and  I 
shall  have  so  much  happiness. 

XXVIII. 

Two  things  make  a  man  set  by  ; — dignity  and  de¬ 
sert.  Amongst  fools,  the  first  without  the  second  is  suf¬ 
ficient  :  amongst  wise  men,  the  second  without  the  first. 
Let  me  deserve  well,  though  I  be  not  advanced.  The 


14 


MEDITATIONS  AND  YOWS. 


conscience  of  my  worth  shall  cheer  me  more  in  oth¬ 
ers’  contempt,  than  the  approbation  of  others  can  comfort 
me,  against  the  secret  check  of  my  own  unworthiness. 

XXIX. 

The  best  qualities  do  so  cleave  to  their  subjects  that 
they  cannot  be  communicated  to  others.  For,  whereas 
patrimony  and  vulgar  account  of  honor  follow  the  blood 
in  many  generations,  virtue  is  not  traduced  by  propa¬ 
gation,  nor  learning  bequeathed  by  our  will  to  our  heirs  ; 
lest  the  givers  should  wax  proud  and  the  receivers  negli¬ 
gent.  I  will  account  nothing  my  own  but  what  I  have 
gotten  ;  nor  that  my  own,  because  it  is  more  of  gift  than 
desert. 


XXX. 

Then  only  is  the  church  most  happy,  when  Truth  and 
Peace  kiss  each  other  ;  and  then  miserable,  when  either 
of  them  balk  the  way,  or  when  they  meet  and  kiss  not. 
For  truth  without  peace,  is  turbulent;  and  peace  with¬ 
out  truth,  is  secure  injustice.  Though  I  love  peace  well, 
yet  I  love  main  truths  better.  And  though  I  love  all 
truths  well,  yet  I  had  rather  conceal  a  small  truth  than 
disturb  a  common  peace. 


XXXI. 

An  indiscreet  good  action  is  little  better  than  a  dis¬ 
creet  mischief.  For  in  this,  the  doer  wrongs  only  the 
patient ;  but  in  that  other,  the  wrong  is  done  to  the  good 
action  :  for  both  it  makes  a  good  thing  odious, — as  many 
good  tales  are  marred  in  telling, — and  besides  it  prejudices 


CENTURY  I. 


15 


a  future  opportunity.  I  will  rather  let  pass  a  good  gale  of 
wind  and  stay  on  the  shore,  than  launch  forth  when  I 
know  the  wind  will  be  contrary. 

XXXII. 

The  world  teacheth  me  that  it  is  madness  to  leave  be¬ 
hind  me  those  goods  that  I  may  carry  with  me  :  Chris¬ 
tianity  teacheth  me  that  what  I  charitably  give  alive 
I  carry  with  me  dead  :  and  experience  teacheth  me  that 
what  I  leave  behind,  I  lose.  I  will  carry  that  treasure 
with  me,  by  giving  it,  which  the  worldling  loseth  by 
keeping  it :  so,  while  his  corpse  shall  carry  nothing  but 
a  winding-cloth  to  his  grave,  I  shall  be  richer  under  the 
earth  than  I  was  above  it. 

XXXIII. 

Every  worldling  is  an  hypocrite ;  for  while  his  face 
naturally  looks  upward  to  heaven,  his  heart  grovels  be¬ 
neath  on  the  earth.  Yet  if  I  would  admit  of  any  dis¬ 
cord  in  the  inward  and  outward  parts,  I  would  have  an 
heart  that  should  look  up  to  heaven  in  an  holy  contempla¬ 
tion  of  the  things  above,  and  a  countenance  cast  down 
to  the  earth  in  humiliation.  This  only  dissimilitude  is 
pleasing  to  God. 


XXXIV. 

The  heart  of  man  is  a  short  word,  a  small  substance  ; 
scarce  enough  to  give  a  kite  one  meal,  yet  great  in  ca¬ 
pacity  ; — yea,  so  infinite  in  desire,  that  the  round  globe 
of  the  world  cannot  fill  the  three  corners  of  it.  When 
it  desires  more,  and  cries  Give,  Give,  I  will  set  it  over 
to  that  infinite  Good,  where  the  more  it  hath,  it  may  de- 


16 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


sire  more,  and  see  more  to  be  desired.  When  it  desires 
but  what  it  needeth,  my  hands  shall  soon  satisfy  it.  For 
if  either  of  them  may  contain  it  when  it  is  without  the 
body,  much  more  may  both  of  them  fill  it  while  it  is 
within. 


XXXV. 

With  men  it  is  a  good  rule  to  try  first,  and  then  to 
trust.  With  God,  it  is  contrary.  I  will  first  trust  Him, 
— as  most  wise,  omnipotent,  merciful, — and  try  Him  af¬ 
terwards.  I  know  it  is  as  impossible  for  him  to  deceive 
me,  as  not  to  be. 

XXXVI. 

As  Christ  was  both  a  Lamb  and  a  Lion,  so  is  every 
Christian.  A  lamb,  for  patience  in  suffering  and  inno¬ 
cence  of  life  ;  a  lion,  for  boldness  in  his  innocency.  I 
would  so  order  my  courage  and  mildness,  that  I  may  be 
neither  lion-like  in  my  conversation,  nor  sheepish  in  the 
defence  of  a  good  cause. 

XXXVII. 

The  godly  sow  in  tears  and  reap  in  joy.  The  seed¬ 
time  is  commonly  waterish  and  lowering.  I  will  be  con¬ 
tent  with  a  wet  spring,  so  I  may  be  sure  of  a  clear  and 
joyful  harvest. 

XXXVIII. 

Every  man  hath  an  heaven  and  an  hell.  Earth  is  the 
wicked  man’s  heaven ;  his  hell  is  to  come.  On  the  con¬ 
trary,  the  godly  have  their  hell  upon  earth,  where  they 
are  vexed  with  tentations  and  afflictions,  by  Satan  and 


CENTURY  I. 


17 


his  complices.  Their  heaven  is  above,  in  endless  hap¬ 
piness.  If  it  be  ill  with  me  on  earth,  it  is  well  my  tor¬ 
ment  is  so  short  and  so  easy.  I  will  not  be  so  covetous 
to  hope  for  two  heavens. 

XXXIX. 

Man  on  his  death-bed  hath  a  double  prospect,  which 
in  his  life-time  the  interposition  of  pleasure  and  miseries 
debarred  him  from.  The  good  man  looks  upward,  and 
sees  heaven  open,  with  Stephen  and  the  glorious  angels 
ready  to  carry  up  his  soul.  The  wicked  man  looks 
downward,  and  sees  three  terrible  spectacles, — Death, 
Judgment,  Hell ;  one  beyond  another,  and  all  to  be  pass¬ 
ed  thorough  by  his  soul.  I  marvel  not  that  the  godly 
have  been  so  cheerful  in  death  that  those  torments, 
whose  very  sight  hath  overcome  the  beholders,  have 
seemed  easy  to  them.  I  marvel  not  that  a  wicked  man 
is  so  loth  to  hear  of  death,  so  dejected  when  he  feeleth 
sickness,  and  so  desperate  when  he  feeleth  the  pangs  of 
death  ;  nor  that  every  Balaam  would  fain  die  the  death  of 
the  righteous.  Henceforth,  I  will  envy  none  but  a  good 
man;  I  will  pity  nothing  so  much  as  the  prosperity 
of  the  wicked. 

XL. 

Not  to  be  afflicted,  is  a  sign  of  weakness.  For  there¬ 
fore  God  imposeth  no  more  on  me,  because  he  sees  I  can 
bear  no  more.  God  will  not  make  choice  of  a  weak 
champion.  When  I  am  stronger,  I  will  look  for  more. 
And  when  I  sustain  more,  it  shall  more  comfort  me  that 
God  finds  me  strong,  than  it  shall  grieve  me  to  be  press¬ 
ed  with  a  heavy  afiliction. 

2 


18 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


XLI. 

That  the  wicked  have  peace  in  themselves,  is  no  won¬ 
der.  They  are  as  sure  as  tentation  can  make  them. 
No  prince  makes  war  with  his  own  subjects.  The  god¬ 
ly  are  still  enemies  ;  therefore  they  must  look  to  be  as¬ 
saulted,  both  by  stratagems  and  violence.  Nothing 
shall  more  joy  me,  than  my  inward  quietness.  A  just 
war  is  a  thousand  times  more  happy  than  an  ill-condi¬ 
tioned  peace. 


XLII. 

Goodness  is  so  powerful  that  it  can  make  things  sim¬ 
ply  evil — namely  our  sins — good  to  us  :  not  good  in  na¬ 
ture,  but  good  in  the  event ;  good  when  they  are  done, 
not  good  to  be  done.  Sin  is  so  powerful  that  it  can  turn 
the  holiest  ordinances  of  God  into  itself.  But  herein 
our  sin  goes  beyond  our  goodness,  that  sin  defiles  a  man 
or  action  otherwise  good.  But  all  the  goodness  of  the 
world  cannot  justify  one  sin  ; — as  the  holy  flesh  in  the 
skirt  makes  not  the  bread  holy  that  toucheth  it,  but  the 
unclean  touching  an  holy  thing,  defileth  it.  I  will  lothe 
every  evil  for  its  own  sake :  I  will  do  good,  but  not 
trust  to  it. 


XL1II. 

Fools  measure  good  actions  by  the  event,  after  they 
are  done  :  wise  men,  beforehand,  by  judgment,  upon  the 
rules  of  reason  and  faith.  Let  me  do  well, — let  God 
take  charge  of  the  success.  If  it  be  well  accepted,  it  is 
well ;  if  not,  my  thank  is  with  God. 


CENTURY  I. 


19 


XLIV. 

He  was  never  a  good  man,  that  amends  not.  For 
if  he  were  good,  he  must  needs  desire  to  be  better. 
Grace  is  so  sweet,  that  whoever  tastes  of  it  must  needs 
long  after  more :  and  if  he  desire  it,  he  will  endeavor  it ; 
and  if  he  do  but  endeavor,  God  will  crown  it  with  suc¬ 
cess.  God’s  family  admitteth  of  no  dwarfs — which  are 
unthriving  and  stand  at  a  stay, — but  men  of  measures. 
Whatever  become  of  my  body  or  my  estate,  I  will 
ever  labor  to  find  somewhat  added  to  the  stature  of  my 
soul. 


XLV. 

Pride  is  the  most  dangerous  of  all  sins.  For  both  it 
is  most  insinuative — having  crept  into  heaven  and  para¬ 
dise, — and  most  dangerous  where  it  is.  For  where  all 
other  tentations  are  about  evil,  this  alone  is  conversant 
only  about  good  things  ;  and  one  dram  of  it  poisons  many 
measures  of  grace.  I  will  not  be  more  afraid  of  do¬ 
ing  good  things  amiss,  than  of  being  proud  when  I  have 
well  performed  them. 

XL  VI. 

Not  only  commission  makes  a  sin.  A  man  is  guilty 
of  all  those  sins  he  hateth  not.  If  I  cannot  avoid  all, 
yet  I  will  hate  all. 

XLVII. 

Prejudice  is  so  great  an  enemy  to  truth  that  it  makes 
the  mind  uncapable  of  it.  In  matters  of  faith,  I  will 
first  lay  a  sure  ground,  and  then  believe  though  I  can- 


20 


MEDITATIONS  AND  TOT7S. 


not  argue  ;  holding  the  conclusion  in  spite  of  the  premi¬ 
ses.  But  in  other  less  matters,  I  will  not  so  forestall  my 
mind  with  resolution,  as  that  I  will  not  be  willing  to  be 
better  informed.  Neither  will  I  say  in  myself,  I  will  hold 
it,  therefore  it  shall  be  the  truth  :  but,  this  is  truth,  there¬ 
fore  I  will  hold  it.  I  will  not  strive  for  victory,  but  for 
truth. 

XLvin. 

Drunkenness  and  Covetousness  do  much  resemble  one 
another.  For  the  more  a  man  drinks,  the  more  he 
thirsteth  ;  and  the  more  he  hath,  still  the  more  he  cov- 
eteth.  And  for  their  effects — besides  other, — both  of 
them  have  the  power  of  transforming  a  man  into  a  beast ; 
and,  of  all  other  beasts,  into  a  swine.  The  former  is  evi¬ 
dent  to  sense.  The  other,  though  more  obscure,  is  no 
more  questionable.  The  covetous  man,  in  two  things 
plainly  resembleth  a  swine  ; — that  he  ever  roots  in  the 
earth,  not  so  much  as  looking  towards  heaven  ; — that  he 
never  doth  good  till  his  death.  In  desiring,  my  rule 
shall  be  necessity  of  nature  or  estate.  In  having,  I  will 
account  that  my  good,  which  doth  me  good. 


xux. 

I  acknowledge  no  Master  of  requests  in  heaven,  but 
one — Christ  my  mediator.  I  know  I  cannot  be  so 
happy  as  not  to  need  him,  nor  so  miserable  that  he 
should  contemn  me.  I  will  always  ask,  and  that  of 
none  but  where  I  am  sure  to  speed  ;  but  where  there  is  so 
much  store  that  when  I  have  had  the  most,  I  shall  leave 
no  less  behind.  Though  numberless  drops  be  in  the 
sea,  yet  if  one  be  taken  out  of  it,  it  hath  so  much  the 
less,  though  insensible.  But  God,  because  he  is  infi- 


CENTURY  I. 


21 


nite,  can  admit  of  no  diminution.  Therefore  are  men 
niggardly,  because  the  more  they  give,  the  less  they 
have  ;  but  thou.  Lord,  mayest  give  what  thou  wilt,  with¬ 
out  abatement  of  thy  store.  Good  prayers  never  came 
weeping  home.  I  am  sure  I  shall  receive  either  what  I 
ask  or  what  I  should  ask. 


L. 

I  see  that  a  fit  booty  many  times  makes  a  thief ;  and 
many  would  be  proud,  if  they  had  but  the  common 
causes  of  their  neighbors.  I  account  this  none  of  the 
least  favors  of  God — that  the  world  goes  no  better  for- 
w*ard  with  me.  For  I  fear  if  my  estate  were  better  to 
the  world,  it  might  be  worse  to  God.  As  it  is  an  happy 
necessity  that  enforceth  to  good,  so  is  that  next  happy 
that  hinders  from  evik 


LI. 

It  is  the  basest  love  of  all  others,  that  is  for  a  benefit ; 
for  herein  we  love  not  another  so  much  as  ourselves. 
Though  there  were  no  heaven,  O  Lord,  I  would  love 
thee.  Xow  there  is  one,  I  will  esteem  it,  I  will  desire 
it ;  yet  still  I  will  love  thee  for  thy  goodness’  sake. 
Thyself  is  reward  enough,  though  thou  broughtest  no 
more. 


LR 

I  see  men  point  the  field,  and  desperately  jeopard 
their  fives — as  prodigal  of  their  blood, — in  the  revenge 
of  a  disgraceful  word  against  themselves ;  while  they  can 
be  content  to  hear  God  pulled  out  of  heaven  with  blas¬ 
phemy,  and  not  feel  so  much  as  a  rising  of  their  blood. 


22 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


Which  argues  our  cold  love  to  God,  and  our  over-fervent 

•> 

affection  to  ourselves.  In  mine  own  wrongs,  I  will  hold 
patience  laudable ;  but  in  God’s  injuries,  impious. 

lid. 

It  is  an  hard  thing  to  speak  well ;  but  it  is  harder  to  be 
well  silent, — so  as  it  may  be  free  from  suspicion  of  af¬ 
fection  or  sullenness,  or  ignorance  :  else  loquacity  and  not 
silence,  would  be  a  note  of  wisdom.  Herein,  I  will  not 
care  how  little,  but  how  well.  He  said  well  for  this — not 
that  which  is  much,  is  well ;  but  that  which  is  well, 
is  much. 

LIV. 

There  is  nothing  more  odious  than  fruitless  old  age. 
Now — for  that  no  tree  bears  fruit  in  Autumn,  unless  it 
blossom  in  the  Spring — to  the  end  that  my  age  may  be 
profitable  and  laden  with  ripe  fruit,  I  will  endeavor  that 
my  youth  may  be  studious,  and  flowered  with  the  blos¬ 
soms  of  learning  and  observation. 

LV. 

Revenge  commonly  hurts  both  the  offerer  and  suffer¬ 
er  ;  as  we  see  in  the  foolish  bee — though  in  all  other 
things  commendable,  yet  herein  the  pattern  of  fond  spite¬ 
fulness — which  in  her  anger  envenometh  the  flesh  and 
losetli  her  sting,  and  so  lives  a  drone  ever  after.  I  ac¬ 
count  it  the  only  valor,  to  remit  a  wrong ;  and  will  ap¬ 
plaud  it  to  myself  as  right  noble  and  Christian,  that  I 
might  hurt  and  will  not. 


CENT  URY  I. 


23 


LVI. 

He  that  lives  well,  cannot  choose  but  die  well.  For 
if  he  die  suddenly,  yet  he  dies  not  unpreparedly:  if  by 
leisure,  the  conscience  of  his  well-led  life  makes  his 
death  more  comfortable.  But  it  is  seldom  seen  that  he 
which  liveth  ill,  dietli  well.  For  the  conscience  of  his 
former  evils,  his  present  pain,  and  the  expectation  and 
fear  of  greater,  so  take  up  his  heart  that  he  cannot  seek 
God.  And  now  it  is  just  with  God,  not  to  be  sought  or 
not  to  be  found,  because  He  sought  to  him  in  his  life¬ 
time,  and  was  repulsed.  Whereas  therefore  there  are 
usually  two  main  cares  of  good  men — to  live  well,  and 
die  well, — I  will  have  but  this  one,  to  live  well. 

LVII. 

With  God,  there  is  no  free  man  but  his  servant,  though 
in  the  gallies :  no  slave  but  the  sinner,  though  in  a  pal¬ 
ace  :  none  noble  but  the  virtuous,  if  never  so  basely  de¬ 
scended  :  none  rich  but  he  that  possesseth  God,  even  in 
rags  :  none  wise,  but  he  that  is  a  fool  to  himself  and  the 
world  :  none  happy,  but  he  whom  the  world  pities.  Let 
me  be  free,  noble,  rich,  wise,  happy,  to  God :  I  pass  not 
what  I  am  to  the  world. 

LVIII. 

When  the  mouth  prayeth,  man  heareth ;  when  the 
heart,  God  heareth.  Every  good  prayer  knocketh  at 
heaven  for  a  blessing  ;  but  an  importunate  prayer  pierceth 
it — though  as  hard  as  brass, — and  makes  way  for  itself 
into  the  ears  of  the  Almighty.  And  as  it  ascends  light¬ 
ly  up,  carried  with  the  wings  of  faith,  so  it  comes  ever 


'v 


24 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


laden  down  again  upon  our  heads.  In  my  prayers,  my 
thoughts  shall  not  be  guided  by  my  words,  but  my  words 
shall  follow  my  thoughts. 

LIX. 

If  that  servant  were  condemned  of  evil  that  gave  God 
no  more  than  His  own,  which  he  had  received,  what  shall 
become  of  them  that  rob  God  of  His  own  ?  If  God  gain 
a  little  glory  by  me,  I  shall  gain  more  by  Him.  I  will 
labor  so  to  husband  the  stock  that  God  hath  left  in  my 
hands,  that  I  may  return  my  soul  better  than  I  received 
it,  and  that  lie  may  take  it  better  than  I  return  it. 

LX. 

Heaven  is  compared  to  an  hill,  and  therefore  is  figured 
by  Olympus  among  the  heathen,  by  Mount  Zion  in  God’s 
book  :  hell,  contrariwise,  to  a  pit.  The  ascent  to  the 
one  is  hard  therefore,  and  the  descent  to  the  other,  easy 
and  headlong.  And  so  as  if  we  once  begin  to  fall,  the 
recovery  is  most  difficult ;  and  not  one  of  many  stays  till 
he  comes  to  the  bottom. 

I  will  be  content  to  pant,  and  blow,  and  sweat,  in 
climbing  up  to  heaven  ;  as,  contrarily,  I  will  be  wary  of 
setting  the  first  step  downward  towards  the  pit.  For 
as  there  is  a  Jacob’s  ladder  into  heaven,  so  there  are 
blind  stairs  that  go  winding  down  into  death,  whereof 
each  makes  way  for  other.  From  the  object  is  raised  an  ill 
suggestion ;  suggestion  draws  on  delight ;  delight,  consent ; 
consent,  endeavor  ;  endeavor,  practice  ;  practice,  custom ; 
custom,  excuse ;  excuse,  defence ;  defence,  obstinacy ; 
obstinacy,  boasting  of  sin  ;  boasting,  a  reprobate  sense. 

I  will  watch  over  my  ways  ;  and  do  thou,  Lord,  watch 


CENTURY  I. 


25 


over  me,  that  I  may  avoid  the  first  degrees  of  sin.  And 
if  those  overtake  my  frailty,  yet  keep  me  that  presump¬ 
tuous  sins  prevail  not  over  me.  Beginnings  are  with 
more  ease  and  safety  declined,  when  we  are  free,  than 
proceedings  when  we  have  begun. 

LXI. 

It  is  fitter  for  youth  to  learn  than  teach,  and  for  age 
to  teach  than  learn  ;  and  yet  fitter  for  an  old  man  to 
learn,  than  to  be  ignorant.  I  know  I  shall  never  know 
so  much  that  I  cannot  learn  more,  and  I  hope  I  shall 
never  live  so  long  as  till  I  be  too  old  to  learn. 

LXII. 

I  never  loved  those  salamanders  that  are  never  well 
but  when  they  are  in  the  fire  of  contention.  I  will  rath¬ 
er  suffer  a  thousand  wrongs  than  offer  one :  I  will  suffer 
a  hundred  rather  than  return  one  ;  I  will  suffer  many 
ere  I  will  complain  of  one  and  endeavor  to  right  it  by 
contending.  I  have  ever  found  that  to  strive  with  my 
superior  is  furious  ;  with  my  equal,  doubtful ;  with  my 
inferior,  sordid  and  base  ;  with  any,  full  of  unquietness. 

LXIII. 

The  praise  of  a  good  speech  standeth  in  words  and 
matter : — matter,  which  is  as  a  fair  and  well-featured 
body ;  elegance  of  words,  which  is  as  a  neat  and  well- 
fashioned  garment.  Good  matter  slubbered  up  in  rude 
and  careless  words,  is  made  lothsome  to  the  hearer  ;  as 
a  good  body  misshapen  with  unhandsome  clothes.  Ele¬ 
gancy,  without  soundness,  is  no  better  than  a  nice  vani¬ 
ty.  Although  therefore  the  most  hearers  are  like  bees, 


26 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


that  go  all  to  the  flowers, — never  regarding  the  good 
herbs  that  are  of  as  wholesome  use,  as  the  other  of  fair 
show, — yet  let  my  speech  strive  to  be  profitable  ;  plausi¬ 
ble,  as  it  happens.  Better  the  coat  be  misshapen  than 
the  body. 

LXIV. 

1  see  that  as  black  and  white  colors  to  the  eyes,  so  is 
the  vice  and  virtue  of  others  to  the  judgment  of  men. 
Vice  gathers  the  beams  of  the  sight  in  one,  that  the  eye 
may  see  it  and  be  intent  upon  it :  virtue  scatters  them 
abroad,  and  therefore  hardly  admits  of  a  perfect  ap¬ 
prehension. 

Whence  it  comes  to  pass  that — as  judgment  is  accord¬ 
ing  to  sense — we  do  so  soon  espy,  and  so  earnestly  cen¬ 
sure  a  man  for  one  vice ;  letting  pass  many  laudable 
qualities  undiscerned,  or  at  least  unacknowledged.  Yea, 
whereas  every  man  is  once  a  fool  and  doth  that,  per¬ 
haps,  in  one  fit  of  his  folly,  which  he  shall  at  leisure  re¬ 
pent  of — as  Noah  in  one  hour’s  drunkenness  uncover¬ 
ed  those  secrets  which  were  hid  six  hundred  years 
before — the  world  is  hereupon  ready  to  call  in  question 
all  his  former  integrity,  and  to  exclude  him  from  the 
hope  of  any  future  amendment.  Since  God  hath  given 
me  two  eyes,  the  one  shall  be  busied  about  the  present 
fault  that  I  see,  with  a  detesting  commiseration ;  the 
other,  about  the  commendable  qualities  of  the  offender, 
not  without  an  impartial  approbation  of  them.  So  shall 
I  do  God  no  wrong  in  robbing  him  of  the  glory  of  his 
gifts,  mixed  with  infirmities  ;  nor  yet  in  the  meantime, 
encourage  vice ;  while  I  do  distinctly  reserve  for  it  a 
due  proportion  of  hatred. 


CENTURY  I. 


27 


LXV. 

God  is  above  man  ;  the  brute  creatures  under  him ; 
he  set  in  the  midst.  Lest  he  should  be  proud  that  he 
hath  infinite  creatures  under  him,  that  One  is  infi¬ 
nite  degrees  above  him.  I  do  therefore  owe  awe  unto 
God  ;  mercy  to  the  inferior  creatures  :  knowing  that 
they  are  my  fellows  in  respect  of  creation,  whereas  there 
is  no  proportion  betwixt  me  and  my  Maker. 

LXVI. 

One  said  “  It  is  good  to  inure  thy  youth  to  speak  well, 
for  good  speech  is  many  times  drawn  into  the  affection.” 
But  I  would  fear  that  speaking  well  without  feeling,  were 
the  next  way  to  procure  an  habitual  hypocrisy.  Let 
my  good  words  follow  good  affections,  not  go  before  them. 
I  will  therefore  speak  as  I  think  ;  but  withal  I  will  labor 
to  think  well,  and  then  I  know  I  cannot  but  speak  well. 

LXVIL 

When  I  consider  my  soul,  I  could  be  proud  to  think 
of  how  divine  a  nature  and  quality  it  is ;  but  when  I 
cast  down  mine  eyes  to  my  body, — as  the  swan  to  her 
black  legs — and  see  what  lothsome  matter  issues  from 
the  mouth,  nostrils,  ears,  pores  and  other  passages  ;  and 
how  most  carrion-like  of  all  other  creatures  it  is  after 
death  ;  I  am  justly  ashamed,  to  think  that  so  excellent  a 
guest  dwells  but  in  a  mere  cleanly  dunghill. 

LX  VIII. 

Every  worldling  is  a  madman.  For — besides  that  he 
preferreth  profit  and  pleasure  to  virtue,  the  world  to 


28 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


God,  earth  to  heaven,  time  to  eternity, — he  pampers  the 
body  and  starves  the  soul.  He  feeds  one  fowl  a  hun¬ 
dred  times  that  it  may  feed  him  but  once  ;  and  seeks  all 
lands  and  seas  for  dainties,  not  caring  whether  any,  or 
what  repast  he  provideth  for  his  soul.  He  clothes  the 
body  with  all  rich  ornaments,  that  it  may  be  as  fair 
without  as  it  is  filthy  within  ;  whilst  his  soul  goes  bare 
and  naked,  having  not  a  rag  of  knowledge  to  cover  it. 
Yea,  he  cares  not  to  destroy  his  soul  to  please  the  body, 
when  for  the  salvation  of  the  soul  he  will  not  so  much 
as  hold  the  body  short  of  the  least  pleasure.  What  is, 
if  this  be  not,  a  reasonable  kind  of  madness  ?  Let  me 
enjoy  my  soul  no  longer  than  I  prefer  it  to  my  body. 
Let  me  have  a  deformed,  lean,  crooked,  unhealthful, 
neglected  body ;  so  that  I  may  find  my  soul  sound, 
strong,  well-furnished,  well-disposed  both  for  earth  and 
heaven. 


LXIX. 

Asa  was  sick  but  of  his  feet  far  from  the  heart ;  yet 
because  he  sought  to  the  physicians,  not  to  God,  he  es¬ 
caped  not.  Hezekiah  was  sick  to  die  ;  yet  because  he 
trusted  to  God,  not  to  physicians,  he  was  restored. 
Means,  without  God,  cannot  help :  God  without  means, 
can  and  often  doth.  I  will  use  good  means,  not  rest  in 
them. 


LXX. 

A  man’s  best  monument  is  his  virtuous  actions. 
Foolish  is  the  hope  of  immortality  and  future  praise,  by 
the  cost  of  senseless  stone — when  the  passenger  shall 
only  say,  Here  lies  a  fair  stone  and  a  filthy  carcass. 


CENTURY  I. 


29 


That  only  can  report  thee  rich ;  but  for  other  praises, 
thyself  must  build  thy  monument  alive,  and  write  thy 
own  epitaph  in  honest  and  honorable  actions.  Which 
are  so  much  more  noble  than  the  other,  as  living  men 
are  better  than  dead  stones  :  nay,  I  know  not  if  the  oth¬ 
er  be  not  the  way  to  work  a  perpetual  succession  of  in¬ 
famy,  while  the  censorious  reader,  upon  occasion  there¬ 
of,  shall  comment  upon  thy  bad  life  :  whereas  in  this, 
every  man’s  heart  is  a  tomb  and  every  man’s  tongue 
writeth  an  epitaph  upon  the  well-behaved.  Either  I 
will  procure  me  such  a  monument  to  be  remembered  by, 
or  else  it  is  better  to  be  inglorious  than  infamous. 

LXXI. 

The  basest  things  are  ever  most  plentiful.  History 
and  experience  tell  us  that  some  kind  of  mouse  breedeth 
one  hundred  and  twenty  young  ones  in  one  nest,  where¬ 
as  the  lion  or  elephant  beareth  but  one  at  once.  I 
have  ever  found  the  least  wit  yieldeth  the  most  words. 
It  is  both  the  surest  and  wisest  way,  to  speak  little  and 
think  more. 

LXXII. 

An  evil  man  is  clay  to  God,  wax  to  the  devil.  God 
may  stamp  him  into  powder  or  temper  him  anew,  but 
none  of  His  means  can  melt  him.  Contrariwise,  a  good 
man  is  God’s  wax  and  Satan’s  clay  :  he  relents  at  every 
look  of  God,  but  is  not  stirred  at  any  tentation.  I 
had  rather  bow  than  break,  to  God ;  but  for  Satan  or 
the  world,  I  had  rather  be  broken  in  pieces  with  their 
violence  than  suffer  myself  to  be  bowed  unto  their 
obedience. 


30 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


LXXIII. 

It  is  an  easy  matter  for  a  man  to  be  careless  of  him¬ 
self,  and  yet  much  easier  to  be  enamored  of  himself. 
For  if  he  be  a  Christian,  while  he  contemneth  the  world 
perfectly,  it  is  hard  for  him  to  reserve  a  competent  mea¬ 
sure  of  love  to  himself :  if  a  worldling,  it  is  not  possible 
but  he  must  over-love  himself.  I  will  strive  for  the 
mean  of  both,  and  so  hate  the  world  that  I  may  care  for 
myself,  and  so  care  for  myself  that  I  be  not  in  love  with 
the  world. 


LXXIV. 

I  will  hate  popularity  and  ostentation  as  ever  danger¬ 
ous,  but  most  of  all  in  God’s  business.  Which  whoso 
affect,  do  as  ill  spokesmen,  who,  when  they  are  sent  to 
woo  for  God,  speak  for  themselves.  I  know  how  dan¬ 
gerous  it  is  to  have  God  my  rival. 

LXXV. 

Earth  affords  no  sound  contentment.  For  what  is 
there  under  heaven  not  troublesome,  besides  that  which 
is  called  pleasure  ? — and  that,  in  the  end,  I  find  most 
irksome  of  all  other.  My  soul  shall  ever  look  upward 
for  joy,  and  downward  for  penitence. 

LXXVI. 

God  is  ever  with  me,  ever  before  me.  I  know  he 
cannot  but  oversee  me  always,  though  my  eyes  be  held 
that  I  see  him  not ;  yea,  he  is  still  within  me,  though  I 
feel  him  not ;  neither  is  there  any  moment  that  I  can 
live  without  God.  Why  do  I  not  therefore  always  live 


CENTURY  I. 


31 


with  him  ?  Why  do  I  not  account  all  hours  lost,  where¬ 
in  I  enjoy  him  not  ? 

LXXVII. 

There  is  no  man  so  happy  as  the  Christian.  When 
he  looks  up  unto  heaven,  he  thinks  1  That  is  my  home ; 
the  God  that  made  it  and  owes  it  is  my  Father ;  the 
angels,  more  glorious  in  nature  than  myself,  are  my  at¬ 
tendants  ;  mine  enemies  are  my  vassals.’  Yea,  those 
things  which  are  the  terriblest  of  all  to  the  wicked,  are  most 
pleasant  to  him.  When  he  hears  God  thunder  above 
his  head,  he  thinks  (  This  is  the  voice  of  my  Father.’ 
When  he  remembereth  the  tribunal  of  the  last  judgment, 
he  thinks  ‘  It  is  my  Saviour  that  sits  in  it.’  When 
death,  he  esteems  it  but  as  the  angel  set  before  paradise, 
which  with  one  blow  admits  him  to  eternal  joy.  And 
— which  is  most  of  all — nothing  in  earth  or  hell  can 
make  him  miserable.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
worth  envying,  but  a  Christian. 

LXXVIII. 

As  man  is  a  little  world,  so  every  Christian  is  a  little 
church  within  himself.  As  the  church  therefore  is  some¬ 
times  in  the  wane  through  persecution,  other  times  in 
her  full  glory  and  brightness  ;  so  let  me  expect  myself 
sometimes  drooping  under  tentations  and  sadly  hanging 
down  the  head  for  the  want  of  the  feeling  of  God’s  pre¬ 
sence,  at  other  times  carried  with  the  full  sail  of  a  reso¬ 
lute  assurance  to  heaven; — knowing  that  as  it  is  a 
church  at  the  weakest  stay,  so  shall  I,  in  my  greatest 
dejection,  hold  the  child  of  God. 


32 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


LX  XIX. 

Tentations  on  the  right  hand  are  more  perilous  than 
those  on  the  left,  and  destroy  a  thousand  to  the  others’ 
ten — as  the  sun  more  usually  causeth  the  traveller  to 
cast  off  his  cloak,  than  the  wind.  For  those  on  the  left 
hand  miscarry  men  but  two  ways,  to  distrust  and  de¬ 
nial  of  God, — more  rare  sins  :  but  the  other,  to  all  the 
rest  wherewith  men’s  lives  are  so  commonly  defiled. 
The  spirit  of  Christians  is  like  the  English  jet,  whereof 
we  read  that  it  is  fired  with  water,  quenched  with  oil. 
And  these  two,  prosperity  and  adversity,  are  like  heat 
and  cold  : — the  one  gathers  the  powers  of  the  soul  to¬ 
gether,  and  makes  them  abler  to  resist  by  uniting  them ; 
the  other  diffuses  them,  and  by  such  separation  makes 
them  easier  to  conquer.  I  hold  it  therefore  as  praise¬ 
worthy  with  God  for  a  man  to  contemn  a  proffered  hon¬ 
or  or  pleasure  for  conscience’  sake,  as,  on  the  rack,  not 
to  deny  his  profession.  When  these  are  offered,  I  will 
not  nibble  at  the  bait,  that  I  be  not  taken  with  the  hook. 

LXXX. 

God  is  Lord  of  my  body  also,  and  therefore  challeng- 
eth  as  well  reverent  gesture  as  inward  devotion.  I  will 
ever,  in  my  prayers,  either  stand  as  a  servant  before  my 
Master,  or  kneel  as  a  subject  to  my  Prince. 

LXXXI. 

I  have  not  been  in  others’  breasts  ;  but,  for  my  own 
part,  I  never  tasted  of  aught  that  might  deserve  the 
name  of  pleasure.  And  if  I  could,  yet  a  thousand  pleas¬ 
ures  cannot  countervail  one  torment ; — because  the  one 


CENTURY  I. 


33 


may  be  exquisite,  the  other  not  without  composition. 
And  if  not  one  torment,  much  less  a  thousand.  And  if 
not  for  a  moment,  much  less  for  eternity.  And  if  not 
the  torment  of  a  part,  much  less  of  the  whole.  For 
if  the  pain  but  of  a  tooth  be  so  intolerable,  what 
shall  the  racking  of  the  whole  body  be  ?  And  if  of  the 
body,  what  shall  that  be  which  is  primarily  of  the  soul  ? 
If  there  be  pleasures  that  I  hear  not  of,  I  will  be  wary 
of  buying  them  so  over-dear. 

LXXX1I. 

As  hypocrisy  is  a  common  counterfeit  of  all  virtues, 
so  there  is  no  special  virtue  which  is  not,  to  the  very 
life  of  it,  seemingly  resembled  by  some  special  vice.  So 
devotion  is  counterfeited  by  superstition,  good  thrift  by 
niggardliness,  charity  with  vain-glorious  pride.  For  as 
charity  is  bounteous  to  the  poor,  so  is  vain-glory  to  the 
wealthy ;  as  charity  sustains  all  for  truth,  so  pride  for  a 
vain  praise  :  both  of  them  make  a  man  courteous  and  affa¬ 
ble.  So  the  substance  of  every  virtue  is  in  the  heart ; 
which — since  it  hath  not  a  window  made  into  it  by  the 
Creator  of  it,  but  is  reserved  under  lock  and  key  for  His 
own  view — I  will  judge  only  by  appearance.  I  had 
rather  wrong  myself  by  credulity,  than  others  by  unjust 
censures  and  suspicions. 

LXXXIII. 

Every  man  hath  a  kingdom  within  himself.  Reason, 
as  the  princess,  dwells  in  the  highest  and  inwardest  room ; 
the  senses  are  the  guard  and  attendants  on  the  court, 
without  whose  aid  nothing  is  admitted  into  the  presence  ; 
the  supreme  faculties — as  will,  memory,  and  so  forth — 

3 


34 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


are  the  peers :  the  outward  parts  and  inward  affections 
are  the  commons ;  violent  passions  are  as  rebels,  to  dis¬ 
turb  the  common  peace.  I  would  not  be  a  Stoic,  to 
have  no  passions — for  that  were  to  overthrow  this  in¬ 
ward  government  God  hath  erected  in  me — but  a  Chris¬ 
tian,  toorder  those  I  have.  And,  for  that  I  see  that,  as  in 
commotions,  one  mutinous  person  draws  on  more,  so  in 
passions  that  one  makes  way  for  the  extremity  of  an¬ 
other — as  excess  of  love  causeth  excess  of  grief  upon  the 
loss  of  what  we  loved — I  will  do  as  wise  princes  use  to 
those  they  misdoubt  for  faction, — so  hold  them  down  and 
keep  them  bare,  that  their  very  impotency  and  remiss¬ 
ness  shall  afford  me  security. 

LXXXIV. 

I  look  upon  the  things  of  this  life,  as  an  owner,  as  a 
stranger.  As  an  owner  in  their  right,  as  a  stranger  in 
their  use.  I  see  that  owning  is  but  a  conceit,  besides 
using.  I  can  use — as  I  lawfully  may — other  men’s  com¬ 
modities  as  my  own  ;  walk  in  their  woods,  look  on  their 
fair  .houses,  with  as  much  pleasure  as  my  own  ;  yet  again 
I  will  use  my  own  as  if  it  wrere  another’s  ;  knowing  that 
though  I  hold  them  by  right,  yet  it  is  only  by  tenure  at 
will. 

LXXXV. 

There  are  none  like  to  Luther’s  three  masters — 
prayer,  tentation,  meditation.  Tentation  stirs  up 
holy  meditation  ;  meditation  prepares  to  prayer ;  and 
prayer  makes  profit  of  tentation,  and  fetcheth  all  divine 
knowledge  from  heaven.  Of  others  I  may  learn  the 
theory  of  divinity  ;  of  these  only,  the  practice.  Other 


CENTURY  I. 


35 


masters  teach  me  by  rote,  to  speak  parrot-like  of  hea¬ 
venly  things ;  these  alone,  with  feeling  and  understand¬ 
ing. 

LXXXVI. 

Affectation  is  the  greatest  enemy  both  of  doing  well 
and  good  acceptance  of  what  is  done.  I  hold  it  the 
part  of  a  wise  man,  to  endeavor  rather  that  fame  may 
follow  him  than  go  before  him. 

LXXXVII. 

I  see  a  number,  which,  with  Shimei,  whiles  they  seek 
their  servant — which  is  riches — lose  their  souls.  No 
worldly  thing  shall  draw  me  without  the  gates  within 
which  God  hath  confined  me. 

LXXXVIII. 

It  is  an  hard  thing  for  a  man  to  find  weariness  in  plea¬ 
sure,  while  itlasteth ;  or  contentment  in  pain,  while  he  is 
under  it.  After  both,  indeed,  it  is  easy ;  yet  both  of 
these  must  be  found  in  both,  or  else  we  shall  be  drunk¬ 
en  with  pleasures  and  overwhelmed  with  sorrow.  As 
those  therefore  which  should  eat  some  dish  over-delicious- 
ly  sweet,  do  allay  it  with  tart  sauce  that  they  may  not  be 
cloyed  ;  and  those  that  are  to  receive  bitter  pills — that 
they  may  not  be  annoyed  with  their  unpleasing  taste — 
roll  them  in  sugar  ;  so  in  all  pleasures  it  is  best  to  labor, 
not  how  to  make  them  most  delightful,  but  how  to  mod¬ 
erate  them  from  excess  ;  and  in  all  sorrows,  so  to  settle 
our  hearts  in  true  grounds  of  comfort  that  we  may  not 
care  so  much  for  being  bemoaned  of  others  as  how  to  be 
most  contented  in  ourselves. 


36 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


LXXXIX. 

In  ways  we  see  travelers  choose  not  the  fairest  and 
greenest,  if  it  be  either  cross  or  contrary ;  but  the  near¬ 
est,  though  miry  and  uneven.  So  in  opinions,  let  me 
follow  not  the  plausiblest  but  the  truest,  though  more 
perplexed. 

XC. 

Christian  society  is  like  a  bundle  of  sticks  laid  togeth¬ 
er,  whereof  one  kindles  another.  Solitary  men  have 
fewest  provocations  to  evil,  but  again  fewest  incitations 
to  good.  So  much  as  doing  good  is  better  than  not  doing 
evil,  will  I  account  Christian  goodfellowship  better 
than  an  eremitish  and  melancholic  solitariness. 

XCI. 

I  had  rather  confess  my  ignorance  than  falsely  profess 
knowledge.  It  is  no  shame  not  to  know  all  things,  but 
it  is  a  just  shame  to  overreach  in  any  thing. 

XCII. 

Sudden  extremity  is  a  notable  trial  of  faith,  or  any 
other  disposition  of  the  soul.  For,  as  in  a  sudden  fear, 
the  blood  gathers  to  the  heart  for  guarding  of  that 
part  which  is  principal,  so  the  powers  of  the  soul  com¬ 
bine  themselves  in  a  hard  exigent,  that  they  may  be  easi¬ 
ly  judged  of.  The  faithful,  more  suddenly  than  any 
casualty,  can  lift  up  his  heart  to  his  stay  in  heaven : 
whereas  the  worldling  stands  amazed  and  distraught 
with  evil,  because  he  hath  no  refuge  to  fly  unto.  For, 
not  being  acquainted  with  God  in  his  peace,  how  should 


CENTURY  I. 


37 


he  but  have  Him  to  seek  in  his  extremity?  When 
therefore  some  sudden  stitch  girds  me  in  the  side,  like  to 
be  the  messenger  of  death ;  or  when  the  sword  of  my 
enemy,  in  an  unexpected  assault  threatens  my  body ; 
I  will  seriously  note  how  I  am  affected ;  so  the  sudden- 
est  evil,  as  it  shall  not  come  unlooked  for,  shall  not  go 
away  unthought  of.  If  I  find  myself  courageous  and 
heavenly  minded,  I  will  rejoice  in  the  truth  of  God’s 
grace  in  me ;  knowing  that  one  dram  of  tried  faith  is 
worth  a  whole  pound  of  speculative,  and  that  which 
once  stood  by  me  will  never  fail  me :  if  dejected  and 
heartless,  herein  I  will  acknowledge  cause  of  humilia¬ 
tion,  and,  with  all  care  and  earnestness,  seek  to  store 
myself  against  the  dangers  following. 

XCIII. 

The  rules  of  civil  policy  may  well  be  applied  to  the 
mind.  As  therefore  for  a  prince,  that  he  may  have 
good  success  against  either  rebels  or  foreign  enemies,  it 
is  a  sure  axiom,  Divide  and  Rule,  but  when  once 
seated  in  the  throne  over  loyal  subjects,  Unite  and 
Rule  ;  so  in  the  regiment  of  the  soul,  there  must  be  va¬ 
riance  set  in  the  judgment  and  the  conscience  and  af¬ 
fections,  that  that  which  is  amiss  may  be  subdued ;  but 
when  all  parts  are  brought  to  order,  it  is  the  only  course 
to  maintain  their  peace  ;  that — all  seeking  to  establish 
and  help  each  other — the  whole  may  prosper.  Always 
to  be  at  war,  is  desperate ;  always  at  peace,  secure  and 
over-Epicure-like.  I  do  account  a  secure  peace  a 
just  occasion  of  this  civil  dissension  in  myself,  and  a 
true  Christian  peace  the  end  of  all  my  secret  wars. 


38 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


Which,  when  I  have  achieved,  I  shall  reign  with  comfort ; 
and  never  will  be  quiet  till  I  have  achieved  it. 

XCIV. 

I  brought  sin  enough  with  me  into  the  world  to  repent  of 
all  my  life,  though  I  should  never  actually  sin  ;  and  sin 
enough  actually  every  day  to  sorrow  for,  though  I  had 
brought  none  with  me  into  the  world  :  but  laying  both 
together,  my  time  is  rather  too  short  for  my  repentance. 
It  were  madness  in  me  to  spend  my  short  life  in  jollity 
and  pleasure — whereof  I  have  so  small  occasion — and 
neglect  the  opportunity  of  my  so  just  sorrow  :  especially 
since  before  I  came  into  the  world  I  sinned ;  after  I  am 
gone  out  of  the  world,  the  contagion  of  my  sin  past  shall 
add  to  the  guilt  of  it — yet  in  both  these  estates  I  am  un- 
capable  of  repentance.  I  will  do  that  while  I  may, 
which,  when  I  have  neglected,  is  unrecoverable. 

xcv. 

Ambition  is  torment  enough  for  an  enemy.  For  it 
affords  as  much  discontentment  in  enjoying  as  in  want ; 
making  men  like  poisoned  rats,  which,  when  they  have 
tasted  of  their  bane,  cannot  rest  till  they  drink,  and  then 
can  much  less  rest  till  their  death.  It  is  better  for  me 
to  live  in  the  wise  men’s  stocks,  in  a  contented  want, 
than  in  a  fool’s  paradise  to  vex  myself  with  wilful  un¬ 
quietness. 

XCVI. 

It  is  not  possible  but  a  conceited  man  must  be  a  fool. 
For  that  overweening  opinion  he  hath  of  himself  excludes 
all  opportunity  of  purchasing  knowledge.  Let  a  vessel 


CENTURY  I. 


39 


be  once  full  of  never  so  base  liquor,  it  will  not  give  room 
to  the  costliest ;  but  spills  beside  whatsoever  is  infused. 
The  proud  man  though  he  be  empty  of  good  substance, 
yet  is  full  of  conceit.  Many  men  had  proved  wise  if 
they  had  not  so  thought  themselves.  I  am  empty  enough 
to  receive  knowledge  enough.  Let  me  think  myself  but 
so  bare  as  I  am,  and  more  I  need  not.  0  Lord,  do 
thou  teach  me  how  little,  how  nothing  I  have ;  and  give 
me  no  more  than  I  know  I  want. 

XCVII. 

Every  man  hath  his  turn  of  sorrow ;  whereby — some 
more,  some  less — all  men  are  in  their  times  miserable. 
I  never  yet  could  meet  with  the  man  that  complained  not 
of  somewhat.  Before  sorrow  come  I  will  prepare  for 
it ;  when  it  is  come  I  will  welcome  it ;  when  it  goes  I  will 
take  but  half  a  farewell  of  it,  as  still  expecting  his  return. 

XCVI1I. 

There  be  three  things  that  follow  an  injury  so  far  as 
it  concerneth  ourselves, — for  as  the  offence  toucheth 
God  it  is  above  our  reach — revenge,  censure,  satisfac¬ 
tion  ;  which  must  be  remitted  by  the  merciful  man.  Yet 
not  all  at  all  times  ;  but  revenge  always, — leaving  it  to 
Him  that  can  and  will  do  it ;  censure  oft-times  ;  satis¬ 
faction  sometimes.  He  that  deceives  me  oft,  though  I 
must  forgive  him,  yet  charity  binds  me  not,  not  to  cen¬ 
sure  him  for  untrusty ;  and  he  that  hath  endamaged  me 
much,  cannot  plead  breach  of  charity  in  my  seeking  his 
restitution.  I  will  so  remit  wrongs  as  I  may  not  en¬ 
courage  others  to  offer  them,  and  so  retain  them  as  I 
may  not  induce  God  to  retain  mine  to  Him. 


40 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


XCIX. 

Garments  that  have  once  one  rent  in  them,  are  sub¬ 
ject  to  be  torn  on  every  nail  and  every  brier  ;  and  glasses 
that  are  once  cracked  are  soon  broken.  Such  is  man’s 
good  name,  once  tainted  with  just  reproach.  Next  to 
the  approbation  of  God  and  the  testimony  of  mine  own 
conscience,  I  will  seek  for  a  good  reputation  amongst 
men :  not  by  close  carriage  concealing  faults,  that  they 
may  not  be  known  to  my  shame ;  but  avoiding  all  vices, 
that  I  may  not  deserve  it.  The  efficacy  of  the  agent 
is  in  the  patient  well-disposed.  It  is  hard  for  me  ever 
to  do  good,  unless  I  be  reputed  good. 


C. 

Many  vegetables  and  many  brute  creatures  exceed 
man  in  length  of  age.  Which  hath  opened  the  mouths  of 
heathen  philosophers  to  accuse  nature  as  a  step-mother 
to  man,  who  hath  given  him  the  least  time  to  live,  that 
only  could  make  use  of  his  time  in  getting  knowledge. 
But  herein  religion  doth  most  magnify  God  in  his 
wisdom  and  justice, — teaching  us  that  other  creatures 
live  long  and  perish  to  nothing,  only  man  recom¬ 
penses  the  shortness  of  his  life  with  eternity  after  it ; 
that  the  sooner  he  dies  well,  the  sooner  he  comes  to  per¬ 
fection  of  knowledge,  which  he  might  in  vain  seek  be¬ 
low  ;  the  sooner  he  dies  ill,  the  less  hurt  he  doth  with 
his  knowledge.  There  is  great  reason,  then,  why  man 
should  live  long ;  greater,  why  he  should  die  early.  I 
will  never  blame  God  for  making  me  too  soon  happy, 
for  changing  my  ignorance  for  knowledge,  my  corruption 
for  immortality,  my  infirmities  for  perfection.  Come, 
Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly  ! 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


CENTURY  II. 


L 

A  man  under  God’s  affliction  is  like  a  bird  in  a  net ; 
the  more  he  striveth,  the  more  he  is  entangled.  God’s 
decree  cannot  be  eluded  with  impatience.  What  I  can¬ 
not  avoid,  I  will  learn  to  bear. 


n. 

I  find  that  all  worldly  things  require  a  long  time  in 
getting,  and  afford  a  short  pleasure  in  enjoying  them.  I 
will  not  care  much  for  what  I  have ;  nothing  for  what  I 
have  not. 

III. 

I  see  natural  bodies  forsake  their  own  place  and  con¬ 
dition  for  the  preservation  of  the  whole.  But  of  all  oth¬ 
er  creatures,  man  ;  and  of  all  other  men  Christians,  have 
the  least  interest  in  themselves.  I  will  five  as  given  to 
others,  lent  only  to  myself. 


42 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


/ 


IV. 

That  which  is  said  of  the  elephant — that  being  guilty 
of  his  deformity,  he  cannot  abide  to  look  on  his  own  face 
in  the  water,  but  seeks  for  troubled  and  muddy  channels 
— we  see  well  moralized  in  men  of  evil  conscience,  who 
know  their  souls  are  so  filthy  that  they  dare  not  so  much 
as  view  them,  but  shift  off  all  checks  of  their  former  ini¬ 
quity  with  vain  excuses  of  good-fellowship.  Whence  it 
is  that  every  small  reprehension  so  galls  them ;  because 
it  calls  the  eye  of  the  soul  home  to  itself,  and  makes 
them  see  a  glimpse  of  what  they  would  not.  So  have  I 
seen  a  foolish  and  timorous  patient,  which,  knowing  his 
wound  very  deep,  would  not  endure  the  chirurgeon  to 
search  it :  whereon  what  can  ensue,  but  a  festering  of 
the  part  and  a  danger  of  the  whole  body  ?  So  I  have 
seen  many  prodigal  wasters  run  so  far  in  books  that  they 
cannot  abide  to  hear  of  reckoning.  It  hath  been  an 
old  and  true  proverb,  4  Oft  and  even  reckonings  make 
long  friends.’  I  will  oft  sum  my  estate  with  God,  that 
I  may  know  what  I  have  to  expect  and  answer  for. 
Neither  shall  my  score  run  on  so  long  with  God  that  I 
shall  not  know  my  debts,  or  fear  an  audit,  or  despair  of 
pardon. 

V. 

I  account  this  body  nothing  but  a  close  prison  to  my 
soul,  and  the  earth  a  larger  prison  to  my  body.  I  may 
not  break  prison  till  I  be  loosed  by  death,  but  I  will 
leave  it  not  unwillingly  when  I  am  loosed. 


CENTURY  II. 


43 


VI. 

The  common  fears  of  the  world  are  causeless  and  ill 
placed.  No  man  fears  to  do  ill,  every  man  to  suffer  ill ; 
wherein — if  we  consider  it  well — we  shall  find  that  we 
fear  our  best  friends.  For  my  part,  I  have  learned 
more  of  God  and  of  myself  in  one  week’s  extremity,  than 
all  my  whole  life’s  prosperity  had  taught  me  before. 
And,  in  reason  and  common  experience,  prosperity  usu¬ 
ally  makes  us  forget  our  death ;  adversity,  on  the  other 
side,  makes  us  neglect  our  life.  Now — if  we  measure 
both  of  these  by  their  effects — forgetfulness  of  death 
makes  us  secure  ;  neglect  of  this  life  makes  us  careful  of 
a  better.  So  much  therefore  as  neglect  of  life  is  better 
than  forgetfulness  of  death,  and  watchfulness  better  than 
security,  so  much  more  beneficial  will  I  esteem  adver¬ 
sity  than  prosperity. 


VII. 

Even  grief  itself  is  pleasant  to  the  remembrance  when 
it  is  once  past,  as  joy  is  whiles  it  is  present.  I  will  not 
therefore,  in  my  conceit,  make  any  so  great  difference 
betwixt  joy  and  grief ;  since  grief  past  is  joyful,  and  long 
expectation  of  joy  is  grievous. 

VIII. 

Every  sickness  is  a  little  death.  I  will  be  content  to 
die  oft,  that  I  may  die  once  well. 

IX. 

Oft  times  those  things  which  have  been  sweet  in  opin¬ 
ion,  have  proved  bitter  in  experience.  I  will  therefore 


44 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


ever  suspend  my  resolute  judgment  until  the  trial  and 
event.  In  the  meanwhile,  I  will  fear  the  worst  and 
hope  the  best. 

X. 

In  all  divine  and  moral  good  things,  I  would  fain  keep 
that  I  have  and  get  that  I  want.  I  do  not  more  lothe 
all  other  covetousness  than  I  affect  this.  In  all  these 
things  alone,  I  profess  never  to  have  enough.  If  I  may 
increase  them  therefore,  either  by  laboring  or  begging  or 
usury,  I  shall  leave  no  means  unattempted. 

XL 

Some  children  are  of  that  nature  that  they  are  never 
well  but  while  the  rod  is  over  them.  Such  am  I  to 
God.  Let  Him  beat  me,  so  He  amend  me  ;  let  Him 
take  all  away  from  me,  so  He  give  me  himself. 

XII. 

There  must  not  be  one  uniform  proceeding  with  all 
men  in  reprehension,  but  that  must  vary  according  to 
the  disposition  of  the  reproved.  I  have  seen  some  men 
as  thorns,  which  easily  touched,  hurt  not,  but  if  hard 
and  unwarily,  fetched  blood  of  the  hand ;  others  as  net¬ 
tles,  which  if  they  be  nicely  handled,  sting  and  prick, 
but  if  Jiard  and  roughly  pressed  are  pulled  up  without 
harm.  Before  I  take  any  man  in  hand,  I  will  know 
whether  he  be  a  thorn  or  a  nettle. 

XIII. 

I  will  account  no  sin  little,  since  there  is  not  the  least 
but  works  out  the  death  of  the  soul.  It  is  all  one  wheth- 


C  ENTUET  II. 


45 


er  I  be  drowned  in  the  ebber  shore,  or  in  the  midst  of 
the  deep  sea. 


XIV. 

It  is  a  base  thing  to  get  goods  to  keep  them.  I  see 
that  God — which  only  is  infinitely  rich — holdeth  no¬ 
thing  in  his  own  hands,  but  gives  all  to  his  creatures. 
But  if  we  will  needs  lay  up,  where  should  we  rather  re¬ 
pose  it  than  in  Christ’s  treasury  ?  The  poor  man’s 
hand  is  the  treasury  of  Christ.  All  my  superfluity  shall 
be  there  hoarded  up,  where  I  know  it  shall  be  safely 
kept  and  surely  returned  me. 

XV. 

The  school  of  God  and  nature  require  two  contrary 
manners  of  proceeding.  In  the  school  of  nature,  we  must 
conceive  and  then  believe.  In  the  school  of  God,  we 
must  first  believe  and  then  we  shall  conceive.  He  that 
believes  no  more  than  he  conceives,  can  never  be  a 
Christian ;  nor  he  a  philosopher  that  assents  without 
reason.  In  nature’s  school,  we  are  taught  to  bolt  out 
the  truth  by  logical  discourse  :  God  cannot  endure  a  lo¬ 
gician.  In  His  school,  he  is  the  best  scholar  that  rea¬ 
sons  least  and  assents  most.  In  divine  things,  what  I 
may,  I  will  conceive ;  the  rest  I  will  believe  and  ad¬ 
mire.  Not  a  curious  head,  but  a  credulous  and  plain 
heart  is  accepted  with  God. 

XVI. 

No  worldly  pleasure  hath  any  absolute  delight  in  it : 
but  as  a  bee — having  honey  in  the  mouth,  hath  a  sting 
in  the  tail.  Why  am  I  so  foolish  to  rest  my  heart  upon 


46 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


any  of  them,  and  not  rather  labor  to  aspire  to  that  one 
absolute  Good,  in  whom  is  nothing  savoring  of  grief,  no¬ 
thing  wanting  to  perfect  happiness  ? 

XVII. 

A  sharp  reproof  I  account  better  than  a  smooth  de¬ 
ceit.  Therefore  when  my  friend  checks  me,  I  will  re¬ 
spect  it  with  thankfulness ;  when  others  flatter  me,  I 
will  suspect  it  and  rest  in  my  own  censure  of  myself, 
who  should  be  more  privy  and  less  partial  to  my  own 
deservings. 


XVIII. 

Extremity  distinguisheth  friends.  Worldly  pleas¬ 
ures,  like  physicians,  give  us  over  when  once  we  lie  a 
dying ;  and  yet  the  death-bed  had  most  need  of  com¬ 
forts.  Christ  Jesus  standeth  by  his  in  the  pangs  of 
death,  and  after  death  at  the  bar  of  judgment — not  leav¬ 
ing  them,  either  in  their  bed  or  grave. 

I  will  use  them  therefore  to  my  best  advantage, — not 
trust  them.  But  for  thee,  O  my  Lord,  which  in  mercy 
and  truth  canst  not  fail  me — whom  I  have  found  ever 
faithful  and  present  in  all  extremities — kill  me,  yet  will 
I  trust  in  thee. 

XIX. 

We  have  heard  of  so  many  thousand  generations 
passed,  and  we  have  seen  so  many  hundreds  die  within 
our  knowledge,  that  I  wonder  any  man  can  make  account 
to  live  one  day.  I  will  die  daily.  It  is  not  done  be¬ 
fore  the  time,  which  may  be  done  at  all  times. 


CENTURY  II. 


47 


XX. 

Desire  oft  times  makes  us  unthankful;  for  whoso 
hopes  for  that  he  hath  not,  usually  forgets  that  which  he 
hath.  I  will  not  suffer  my  heart  to  rove  after  high  or 
impossible  hopes,  lest  I  should  in  the  mean  time  con¬ 
temn  present  benefits. 

XXI. 

In  hoping  well,  in  being  ill,  and  fearing  worse,  the 
life  of  man  is  wholly  consumed.  When  I  am  ill,  I  will 
live  in  hope  of  better ;  when  well,  in  fear  of  worse ;  nei¬ 
ther  will  I  at  any  time  hope  without  fear,  lest  I  should 
deceive  myself  with  too  much  confidence — wherein  evil 
shall  be  so  much  more  unwelcome  and  intolerable,  be¬ 
cause  I  looked  for  good — nor  again  fear  without  hope, 
lest  I  should  be  over-much  dejected ;  nor  do  either  of 
them,  without  true  contentation. 

XXII. 

What  is  man  to  the  whole  earth  ?  What  is  earth  to 
the  heaven  ?  What  is  heaven  to  his  Maker  ?  I  will  ad¬ 
mire  nothing  in  itself ;  but  all  things  in  God,  and  God 
in  all  things. 

XXIII. 

There  be  three  usual  causes  of  ingratitude  upon  a  be¬ 
nefit  received — envy,  pride,  covetousness.  Envy  look¬ 
ing  more  at  others’  benefits  than  our  own ;  pride,  look¬ 
ing  more  at  ourselves  than  the  benefit;  covetousness 
looking  more  at  what  we  would  have  than  what  we  have. 
In  good  turns,  I  will  neither  respect  the  giver,  nor  my- 


48 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


self,  nor  the  gift,  nor  others ;  but  only  the  intent  and 
good  will  from  whence  it  proceeded.  So  shall  I  re¬ 
quite  others’  great  pleasures  with  equal  good  will,  and 
accept  of  small  favors  with  great  thankfulness. 

XXIV. 

Whereas  the  custom  of  the  world  is  to  hate  things 
present,  to  desire  future,  and  magnify  what  is  past,  I 
will,  contrarily,  esteem  that  which  is  present,  best ;  for 
both  what  is  past  was  once  present,  and  what  is  future 
will  be  present.  Future  things  next,  because  they  are 
present  in  hope ;  what  is  past,  least  of  all,  because  it 
cannot  be  present — yet  somewhat,  because  it  was. 

XXV. 

We  pity  the  folly  of  the  lark,  which  while  it  playeth 
with  the  feather  and  stoopeth  to  the  glass,  is  caught  in 
the  fowler’s  net :  and  yet  cannot  see  ourselves  alike  made 
fools  by  Satan,  who,  deluding  us  by  the  vain  feathers 
and  glasses  of  the  world,  suddenly  enwrappeth  us  in  his 
snares.  We  see  not  the  nets  indeed ;  it  is  too  much 
that  we  shall  feel  them,  and  that  they  are  not  so  easily 
escaped  after,  as  before  avoided.  O  Lord,  keep  thou 
mine  eyes  from  beholding  vanity.  And  though  mine 
eyes  see  it,  let  not  my  heart  stoop  to  it,  but  lothe  it 
afar  off.  And  if  I  stoop  at  any  time  and  be  taken,  set 
thou  my  soul  at  liberty,  that  I  may  say,  My  soul  is  es¬ 
caped,  even  as  a  bird  out  of  the  snare  of  the  fowler — the 
snare  is  broken  and  I  am  delivered. 

XXVI. 

In  suffering  evil,  to  look  to  secondary  causes  without 


CE  N  TUKY  II. 


49 


respect  to  the  highest,  maketh  impatience — for  so  we 
bite  at  the  stone  and  neglect  him  that  threw  it.  If  we 
take  a  blow  at  our  equal,  we  return  it  with  usury ;  if  of 
a  prince,  we  repine  not.  What  matter  is  it,  if  God  kill 
me,  whether  he  do  it  by  an  ague,  or  by  the  hand  of  a 
tyrant  ?  Again,  in  expectation  of  good,  to  look  to  the 
first  cause,  without  care  of  the  second,  argues  idleness 
and  causeth  want.  As  we  cannot  help  ourselves  with¬ 
out  God,  so  God  will  not  ordinarily  help  us  without  our¬ 
selves.  In  both,  I  will  look  up  to  God,  without  repin¬ 
ing  at  the  means  in  one  or  trusting  them  in  the  other. 

XXVIL 

If  my  money  were  another  man’s,  I  could  but  keep 
it :  only  the  expending  shows  it  my  own.  It  is  greater 
glory,  comfort  and  gain  to  lay  it  out  well  than  to  keep  it 
safely.  God  hath  made  me  not  his  treasurer,  but  his 
steward. 

xxvm. 

Augustine’s  friend  Nebridius,  not  unjustly,  hated  a 
short  answer  to  a  weighty  and  difficult  question ;  be¬ 
cause  the  disquisition  of  great  truths  requires  time,  and 
the  determining  is  perilous.  I  will  as  much  hate  a 
tedious  and  far-fetched  answer  to  a  short  and  easy  ques¬ 
tion.  For  as  that  other  wrongs  the  truth,  so  this  the 
hearer. 


XXIX. 

Performance  is  a  binder.  I  will  request  no  more  fa¬ 
vor  of  any  man  than  I  must  needs.  I  will  rather  choose 

4 


50 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


to  make  an  honest  shift,  than  over-much  enthrall  myself 
by  being  beholding. 

XXX. 

The  world  is  a  stage  ;  every  man  an  actor,  and  plays 
his  part  here,  either  in  a  comedy  or  tragedy.  The  good 
man  is  a  comedian — which,  however  he  begins,  ends 
merrily :  but  the  wicked  man  acts  a  tragedy,  and  there¬ 
fore  ever  ends  in  horror.  Thou  seest  a  wicked  man 
vaunt  himself  on  this  stage.  Stay  till  the  last  act,  and 
look  to  his  end  as  David  did,  and  see  whether  that  be 
peace.  Thou  wouldst  make  strange  tragedies  if  thou 
wouldst  have  but  one  act.  Who  sees  an  ox  grazing  in 
a  fat  and  rank  pasture,  and  thinks  not  that  he  is  near  to 
the  slaughter  ? — whereas  the  lean  beast,  that  toils  under 
the  yoke,  is  far  enough  from  the  shambles.  The  best 
wicked  man  cannot  be  so  envied  in  his  first  shows,  as  he 
is  pitiable  in  the  conclusion. 

XXXI. 

Of  all  objects  of  beneficence,  I  will  choose  either  an 
old  man  or  a  child ;  because  these  are  most  out  of  hope 
to  requite.  The  one  forgets  a  good  turn  ;  the  other 
lives  not  to  repay  it. 

XXXII. 

That  which  Pythagoras  said  of  philosophers,  is  more 
true  of  Christians ; — for  Christianity  is  nothing  but  a 
divine  and  better  philosophy.  Three  sorts  of  men  come 
to  the  market — buyers,  sellers,  lookers  on.  The  two 
first  are  both  busy  and  carefully  distracted  about  their 


CE  NTURY  II. 


51 


market :  only  the  third  live  happily,  using  the  world  as 
if  they  used  it  not. 

XXXIII. 

There  be  three  things  which,  of  all  other,  I  will  never 
strive  for ; — the  wall,  the  way,  the  best  seat.  If  I  de¬ 
serve  well,  a  low  place  cannot  disparage  me  so  much  as 
I  shall  grace  it ;  if  not,  the  height  of  my  place  shall  add 
to  my  shame,  whiles  every  man  shall  condemn  me  of 
pride  matched  with  unworthiness. 

XXXIV. 

I  see  there  is  not  so  much  difference  betwixt  a  man 
and  a  beast,  as  betwixt  a  Christian  and  a  natural  man. 
For  whereas  man  lives  but  one  life  of  reason  above  the 
beast,  a  Christian  lives  four  lives  above  a  natural  man  ; 
— the  life  of  inchoate  regeneration  by  grace  ;  the  perfect 
life  of  imputed  righteousness  ;  the  life  of  glory  begun,  in 
the  separation  of  the  soul ;  the  life  of  perfect  glory,  in 
the  society  of  the  body  with  the  soul  in  full  happiness  : 
— the  worst  whereof  is  better  by  many  degrees  than  the 
best  life  of  a  natural  man.  For  whereas  the  dignity  of 
the  life  is  measured  by  the  cause  of  it — in  which  regard 
the  life  of  the  plant  is  basest,  because  it  is  but  from  the 
juice  arising  from  the  root,  administered  by  the  earth ; 
the  life  of  the  brute  creature  better  than  it,  because 
it  is  sensitive :  of  a  man  better  than  it,  because  rea¬ 
sonable — and  the  cause  of  this  life  is  the  spirit  of  God ; 
so  far  as  the  spirit  of  God  is  above  reason,  so  far  doth  a 
Christian  exceed  a  mere  naturalist.  I  thank  God  much 
that  he  hath  made  me  a  man ;  but  more,  that  he  hath 
made  me  a  Christian  : — without  which,  I  know  not 


52 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


whether  it  had  been  better  for  me  to  have  been  a  beast, 
or  not  to  have  been. 

XXXV. 

Great  men’s  favors,  friends’  promises,  and  dead  men’s 
shoes,  I  will  esteem,  but  not  trust  to. 

XXXVI. 

It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  sin  ;  more  fearful  to  delight  in 
sin  ;  yet  worse  than  worst,  to  boast  of  it.  If  therefore  I 
cannot  avoid  sin,  because  I  am  a  man,  yet  I  will  avoid 
the  delight,  defence  and  boasting  of  sin,  because  I  am  a 
Christian. 

XXXVII. 

Those  things  which  are  most  eagerly  desired,  are 
most  hardly  both  gotten  and  kept — God  commonly  cross¬ 
ing  our  desires  in  what  we  are  over-fervent.  I  will 
therefore  account  all  things  as  too  good  to  have,  so  no¬ 
thing  too  dear  to  lose. 

XXXVIII. 

A  true  friend  is  not  born  every  day.  It  is  best  to  be 
courteous  to  all,  entire  with  few.  So  may  we,  perhaps, 
have  less  cause  of  joy — I  am  sure,  less  occasion  of 
sorrow. 

XXXIX. 

Secrecies,  as  they  are  a  burden  to  the  mind  ere  they 
be  uttered,  so  are  they  no  less  charge  to  the  receiver 
when  they  are  uttered.  I  will  not  long  after  more  in¬ 
ward  secrets,  lest  I  should  procure  doubt  to  myself  and 


CENTURY  II. 


53 


jealous  fear  to  the  discloser :  but  as  my  mouth  shall  be 
shut  with  fidelity,  not  to  blab  them,  so  my  ear  shall  not 
be  too  open  to  receive  them. 

XL. 

As  good  physicians  by  one  receipt  make  way  for  an¬ 
other,  so  is  it  the  safest  course  in  practice.  I  will  re¬ 
veal  a  great  secret  to  none,  but  whom  I  have  found 
faithful  in  less. 

XLI. 

I  will  enjoy  all  things  in  God,  and  God  in  all  things ; 
nothing  in  itself :  so  shall  my  joys  neither  change  nor 
perish.  For  however  the  things  themselves  may  alter 
or  fade,  yet  He  in  whom  they  are  mine,  is  ever  like 
himself,  constant  and  everlasting. 

XLH. 

If  I  would  provoke  myself  to  contentation,  I  will  cast 
down  my  eyes  to  my  inferiors,  and  there  see  better  men 
in  worse  condition  :  if  to  humility,  I  will  cast  them  up  to 
my  betters ;  and  so  much  more  deject  myself  to  them, 
by  how  much  more  I  see  them  thought  worthy  to  be  re¬ 
spected  of  others,  and  deserve  better  in  themselves. 

XLIII. 

True  virtue  rests  in  the  conscience  of  itself,  either  for 
reward  or  censure.  If  therefore  I  know  myself  upright, 
false  rumors  shall  not  daunt  me  :  if  not  answerable  to 
the  good  report  of  my  favorers,  I  will  myself  find  the 
first  fault,  that  I  may  prevent  the  shame  of  others. 


54 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


XLIV. 

I  will  account  virtue  the  best  riches,  knowledge  the 
next,  riches  the  worst :  and  therefore  will  labor  to  be 
virtuous  and  learned,  without  condition.  As  for  riches, 
if  they  fall  in  my  way,  I  refuse  them  not ;  but  if  not  I 
desire  them  not. 

XLV. 

An  honest  word  I  account  better  than  a  careless  oath. 
I  will  say  nothing  but  what  I  dare  swear,  and  will  per¬ 
form.  It  is  a  shame  for  a  Christian  to  abide  his  tongue 
a  false  servant,  or  his  mind  a  loose  mistress. 

XLVI. 

There  is  a  just  and  easy  difference  to  be  put  betwixt 
a  friend  and  an  enemy,  betwixt  a  familiar  and  a  friend — 
and  much  good  use  to  be  made  of  all ;  but  of  all,  with 
discretion.  I  will  disclose  myself  no  whit  to  my  enemy, 
somewhat  to  my  friend,  wholly  to  no  man — lest  I  should 
be  more  others’  than  mine  own.  Friendship  is  brittle 
stuff.  How  know  I  whether  he  that  loves  me,  may  not 
hate  me  hereafter  ? 

XL  VII. 

No  man  but  is  an  easy  judge  of  his  own  matters ;  and 
lookers-on  oftentimes  see  the  more.  I  will  therefore 
submit  myself  to  others  in  what  I  am  reproved,  but  in 
what  I  am  praised,  only  to  myself. 


CENTURY  II. 


55 


XLVIII. 

I  will  not  be  so  merry  as  to  forget  God,  nor  so  sor¬ 
rowful  to  forget  myself. 


XLIX. 

As  nothing  makes  so  strong  and  mortal  hostility  as 
discord  in  religions,  so  nothing  in  the  world  unites  men’s 
hearts  so  firmly  as  the  bond  of  faith.  For  whereas 
there  are  three  grounds  of  friendship — virtue,  pleasure, 
profit ;  and,  by  all  confessions,  that  is  the  surest  which 
is  upon  virtue,  it  must  needs  follow  that  what  is  ground¬ 
ed  on  the  best  and  most  heavenly  virtue,  must  be  the 
fastest :  which  as  it  unites  man  to  God,  so  inseparably 
that  no  tentations,  no  torments,  not  all  the  gates  of  hell 
can  sever  him  ;  so  it  unites  one  Christian  soul  to  anoth¬ 
er  so  firmly  that  no  outward  occurrences,  no  imperfec¬ 
tions  in  the  party  loved,  can  dissolve  them.  If  I  love 
not  the  child  of  God,  for  his  own  sake,  for  his  Father’s 
sake,  more  than  my  friend  for  my  commodity,  or  my 
kinsman  for  blood,  I  never  received  any  spark  of  true 
heavenly  love. 

L. 

The  good  duty  that  is  deferred  upon  a  conceit  of  pres¬ 
ent  unfitness,  at  last  grows  irksome,  and  thereupon  al¬ 
together  neglected.  I  will  not  suffer  my  heart  to  en¬ 
tertain  the  least  thought  of  lothness  towards  the  task  of 
devotion,  wherewith  I  have  stinted  myself ;  but  violent¬ 
ly  break  thorough  any  motion  of  unwillingness,  not  with¬ 
out  a  deep  check  to  myself,  for  my  backwardness. 


56 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


LT. 

Hearing  is  a  sense  of  great  apprehension,  yet  far 
more  subject  to  deceit  than  seeing — not  in  the  manner 
of  apprehending,  but  in  the  uncertainty  of  the  object. 
Words  are  vocal  interpreters  of  the  mind — actions,  real : 
and  therefore  however  both  should  speak  according  to 
the  truth  of  what  is  in  the  heart,  yet  words  do  more  be¬ 
lie  the  heart,  than  actions.  I  care  not  what  words  I  hear, 
when  I  see  deeds.  I  am  sure  what  a  man  doth,  he  thinketh 
— not  so,  always,  what  he  speaketli.  Though  I  will  not 
be  so  severe  a  censor  that  for  some  few  evil  acts  I  should 
condemn  a  man  of  false-heartedness,  yet,  in  common 
course  of  life  I  need  not  be  so  mopish  as  not  to  believe 
rather  the  language  of  the  hand  than  of  the  tongue.  He 
that  says  well  and  doth  well,  is  without  exception,  com¬ 
mendable  ;  but  if  one  of  these  must  be  severed  from  the 
other,  I  like  him  well  that  doth  well,  and  saith  nothing. 

LII. 

That  which  is  said  of  the  pelican — that  when  the  shep¬ 
herds,  in  desire  to  catch  her,  lay  fire  not  far  from  her 
nest,  which  she  finding  and  fearing  the  danger  of  her 
young,  seeks  to  blow  out  with  her  wings,  so  long  till  she 
burn  herself  and  makes  herself  a  prey  in  an  unwise  pity 
to  the  young — I  see  morally  verified  in  experience,  of 
those  which  indiscreetly  meddling  with  the  flame  of  dis¬ 
sension  kindled  in  the  church,  rather  increase  than  quench 
it ;  rather  fire  their  own  wings  than  help  others.  I  had 
rather  bewail  the  fire  afar  off,  than  stir  in  the  coals  of 
it.  I  would  not  grudge  my  ashes  to  it,  if  those  might 
abate  the  burning ;  but  since  I  see  this  is  daily  increased 


CENTURY  II. 


57 


with  partaking,  1  will  behold  it  with  sorrow,  and  meddle 
no  otherwise  than  by  prayers  to  God  and  entreaties  to 
men ;  seeking  my  own  safety  and  the  peace  of  the 
church,  in  the  freedom  of  my  thought  and  silence  of  my 
tongue. 

Lin. 

That  which  is  said  of  Lucilla’s  faction — that  anger 
bred  it,  pride  fostered  it,  and  covetousness  confirmed  it 
— is  true  of  all  schisms,  though  with  some  inversion. 
For  the  most  are  bred  through  pride — whiles  men,  upon 
an  high  conceit  of  themselves,  scorn  to  go  in  the  com¬ 
mon  road,  and  affect  singularity  in  opinion, — are  con¬ 
firmed  through  anger — whiles  they  stomach  and  grudge 
any  contradiction, — and  are  nourished  through  covetous¬ 
ness, — -whiles  they  seek  ability  to  bear  out  their  part. 
In  some  others,  again,  covetousness  obtains  the  first 
place,  anger  the  second,  pride  the  last.  Herein  there¬ 
fore  I  have  been  always  wont  to  commend  and  admire 
the  humility  of  those  great  and  profound  wits,  whom 
depth  of  knowledge  hath  not  led  to  by-paths  in  judg¬ 
ment,  but,  walking  in  the  beaten  path  of  the  church, 
have  bent  all  their  forces  to  the  establishment  of  received 
truths  :  accounting  it  greater  glory  to  confirm  an  ancient 
verity  than  to  devise  a  new  opinion,  though  never  so 
profitable,  unknown  to  their  predecessors.  I  will  not 
reject  a  truth,  for  mere  novelty : — old  truths  may  come 
newly  to  light,  neither  is  God  tied  to  times  for  the  gift 
of  his  illumination — but  I  will  suspect  a  novel  opinion  of 
untruth ;  and  not  entertain  it,  unless  it  may  be  deduced 
from  ancient  grounds. 


58 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


LIV. 

The  ear  and  the  eye  are  the  mind’s  receivers  ;  but 
the  tongue  is  only  busied  in  expending  the  treasure  re¬ 
ceived.  If  therefore  the  revenues  of  the  mind  be  utter¬ 
ed  as  fast  or  faster  than  they  are  received,  it  cannot  be 
but  that  the  mind  must  needs  be  held  bare,  and  can  nev¬ 
er  lay  up  for  purchase.  But  if  the  receivers  take  in 
still  with  no  utterance,  the  mind  may  soon  grow  a  bur¬ 
den  to  itself,  and  unprofitable  to  others.  I  will  not  lay 
up  too  much  and  utter  nothing,  lest  I  be  covetous;  nor 
spend  much  and  store  up  little,  lest  I  be  prodigal  and 
poor. 

LV. 

It  is  a  vainglorious  flattery  for  a  man  to  praise  him¬ 
self  ;  an  envious  wrong  to  detract  from  others.  I  will 
therefore  speak  no  ill  of  others,  no  good  of  myself. 

LVL 

That  which  is  the  misery  of  travelers — to  find  many 
hosts  and  few  friends — is  the  estate  of  Christians  in 
their  pilgrimage  to  a  better  life.  Good  friends  may  not 
therefore  be  easily  foregone  :  neither  must  they  be  used 
as  suits  of  apparel ;  which,  when  we  have  worn  thread¬ 
bare,  we  cast  off,  and  call  for  new.  Nothing  but  death 
or  villainy  shall  divorce  me  from  an  old  friend  ;  but  still 
I  will  follow  him  so  far  as  is  either  possible  or  honest, 
and  then  I  will  leave  him  with  sorrow. 

LVII. 

True  friendship  necessarily  requires  patience.  For 


CENTURY  II. 


59 


there  is  no  man  in  whom  I  shall  not  mislike  somewhat, 
and  who  shall  not  as  justly  mislike  somewhat  in  me. 
My  friend’s  faults  therefore,  if  little,  I  will  swallow  and  di¬ 
gest  ;  if  great  I  will  smother  them.  However,  I  will  wink 
at  them  to  others,  but  lovingly  notify  them  to  himself. 

LVIII. 

Injuries  hurt  not  more  in  the  receiving  than  in  the 
remembrance.  A  small  injury  shall  go  as  it  comes ; 
a  great  injury  may  dine  or  sup  with  me  ;  but  none  at 
all  shall  lodge  with  me.  Why  should  I  vex  myself,  be¬ 
cause  another  hath  vexed  me  ? 

LIX. 

It  is  good  dealing  with  that  over  which  we  have  the 
most  power.  If  my  state  will  not  be  framed  to  my  mind, 
I  will  labor  to  frame  my  mind  to  my  estate. 

LX. 

It  is  a  great  misery  to  be  either  always,  or  never, 
alone.  Society  of  men  hath  not  so  much  gain  as  dis¬ 
traction.  In  greatest  company,  I  will  be  alone  to  my¬ 
self  ;  in  greatest  privacy,  in  company  with  God. 

LXI. 

Grief  for  things  past  that  cannot  be  remedied,  and 
care  for  things  to  come  that  cannot  be  prevented,  may 
easily  hurt,  can  never  benefit  me.  I  will  therefore  com¬ 
mit  myself  to  God  in  both,  and  enjoy  the  present. 

LXH. 

Let  my  estate  be  never  so  mean,  I  will  ever  keep 


60 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


myself  rather  beneath,  than  either  level  or  above  it.  A 
man  may  rise,  when  he  will,  with  honor ;  but  cannot  fall 
without  shame. 

LXIII. 

Nothing  doth  so  befool  a  man  as  extreme  passion. 
This  doth  both  make  them  fools  which  otherwise  are  not, 
and  show  them  to  be  fools  that  are  so.  Violent  passions, 
if  I  cannot  tame  them  that  they  may  yield  to  my  ease, 
I  will  at  least  smother  them  by  concealment,  that  they 
may  not  appear  to  my  shame. 

LXIV. 

The  mind  of  man,  though  infinite  in  desire,  yet  is 
finite  in  capacity.  Since  I  cannot  hope  to  know  all  things, 
I  will  labor  first  to  know  what  I  needs  must,  for  their 
use ;  next,  what  I  best  may,  for  their  convenience. 

LXV. 

Though  time  be  precious  to  me — as  all  irrevocable 
good  things  deserve  to  be — and  of  all  other  things,  I 
would  not  be  lavish  of  it,  yet  I  will  account  no  time  lost, 
that  is  either  lent  to,  or  bestowed  upon,  my  friend. 

LXVI. 

The  practices  of  the  best  men  are  more  subject  to 
error  than  their  speculations.  I  will  honor  good  exam¬ 
ples  ;  but  I  will  live  by  good  precepts. 

LXVII. 

As  charity  requires  forgetfulness  of  evil  deeds,  so  pa- 


CENTURY  II. 


61 


tience  requires  forgetfulness  of  evil  accidents.  I  will 
remember  evils  past,  to  humble  me,  not  to  vex  me. 

LX  VIII. 

It  is  both  a  misery  and  a  shame  for  a  man  to  be  a 
bankrupt  in  love ;  which  he  may  easily  pay,  and  be 
never  the  more  impoverished.  I  will  be  in  no  man’s 
debt  for  good  will ;  but  will  at  least  return  every  man 
his  own  measure,  if  not  with  usury.  It  is  much  better 
to  be  a  creditor  than  a  debtor,  in  any  thing,  but  espe¬ 
cially  of  this.  Yet  of  this,  I  will  so  be  content  to  be  a 
debtor,  that  I  will  always  be  paying  it  where  I  owe  it ; 
and  yet  never  will  have  so  paid  it,  that  I  shall  not  owe 
it  more. 


LXIX. 

The  Spanish  proverb  is  too  true — ‘  Dead  men  and 
absent  find  no  friends.’  All  mouths  are  boldly  opened 
with  a  conceit  of  impunity.  My  ear  shall  be  no  grave, 
to  bury  my  friend’s  good  name.  But  as  I  will  be  my 
present  friend’s  self,  so  will  I  be  my  absent  friend’s  dep¬ 
uty,  to  say  for  him  what  he  would,  and  cannot,  speak 
for  himself. 

LXX. 

The  loss  of  my  friend,  as  it  shall  moderately  grieve 
me,  so  it  shall  another  way  much  benefit  me,  in  recom¬ 
pense  of  his  want,  for  it  shall  make  me  think  more  often 
and  seriously,  of  earth  and  of  heaven.  Of  earth,  for  his 
body  which  is  reposed  in  it ;  of  heaven,  for  his  soul 
which  possesseth  it  before  me ;  of  earth,  to  put  me  in 


62 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


mind  of  my  like  frailty  and  mortality ;  of  heaven,  to  make 
me  desire  and,  after  a  sort,  emulate  his  happiness  and 
glory. 

LXXI. 

Variety  of  objects  is  wont  to  cause  distraction  ;  when 
again  a  little  one  laid  close  to  the  eye,  if  but  of  a  penny 
breadth,  wholly  takes  up  the  sight,  which  could  else  see 
the  whole  half  heaven  at  once.  I  will  have  the  eyes  of 
my  mind  ever  forestalled  and  filled  with  these  two  ob¬ 
jects— the  shortness  of  my  life  ;  eternity  after  death. 

LXXII. 

I  see  that  he  is  more  happy  that  hath  nothing  to  lose, 
than  he  that  loseth  that  which  he  hath.  I  will  therefore 
neither  hope  for  riches,  nor  fear  poverty. 

Lxxni. 

I  care  not  so  much,  in  anything,  for  multitude  as  for 
choice.  Books  and  friends  I  wrill  not  have  many :  I 
had  rather  seriously  converse  with  a  few,  than  wander 
amongst  many. 


LXXIV. 

The  wicked  man  is  a  very  coward  and  is  afraid  of 
everything.  Of  God,  because  He  is  his  enemy ;  of 
Satan,  because  he  is  his  tormentor ;  of  God’s  creatures, 
because  they,  joining  with  their  Maker,  fight  against 
him ;  of  himself,  because  he  bears  about  him  his  own 
accuser  and  executioner.  The  godly  man,  contrarily, 
is  afraid  of  nothing.  Not  of  God,  because  he  knows 
Him  his  best  friend  and  therefore  will  not  hurt  him ; 


CENTURY  II. 


63 


not  of  Satan,  because  be  cannot  hurt  him  ;  not  of  afflic¬ 
tions,  because  he  knows  they  proceed  from  a  loving  God 
and  end  to  his  own  good ;  not  of  the  creatures,  since 
the  very  stones  of  the  field  are  in  league  with  him ;  not 
of  himself,  since  his  conscience  is  at  peace.  A  wicked 
man  may  be  secure,  because  he  knoweth  not  what  he 
hath  to  fear ;  or  desperate,  through  extremity  of  fear  ; 
but  truly  courageous  he  cannot  be.  Faithlessness  can¬ 
not  choose  but  be  false  hearted.  I  will  ever  by  my  cour¬ 
age  take  trial  of  my  faith.  By  how  much  more  I  fear, 
by  so  much  less  I  believe. 

LXXV. 

The  godly  man  lives  hardly,  and — like  the  ant — toils 
here  during  the  summer  of  his  peace,  holding  himself 
short  of  his  pleasures,  as  looking  to  provide  for  an  hard 
winter,  which,  when  it  comes,  he  is  able  to  wear  it  out 
comfortably :  whereas  the  wicked  man  doth  prodigally 
lash  out  all  his  joys  in  the  time  of  his  prosperity,  and — 
like  the  grasshopper — singing  merrily  all  summer,  is 
starved  in  winter.  I  will  so  enjoy  the  present,  that  I 
will  lay  up  more  for  hereafter. 

LXXVI. 

I  have  wondered  oft  and  blushed  for  shame,  to  read 
in  mere  philosophers — which  had  no  other  mistress  but 
nature — such  strange  resolution  in  the  contempt  of  both 
fortunes,  as  they  call  them ;  such  notable  precepts  for  a 
constant  settledness  and  tranquillity  of  mind ;  and  to 
compare  it  with  my  own  disposition  and  practice — whom 
I  have  found  too  much  drooping  and  dejected  under 
small  crosses,  and  easily  again  carried  away  with  little 


64 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


prosperity  : — to  see  such  courage  and  strength  to  con¬ 
temn  death,  in  those  which  thought  they  wholly  perish¬ 
ed  in  death :  and  to  find  such  faint-heartedness  in  my¬ 
self  at  the  first  conceit  of  death,  who  yet  am  thoroughly 
persuaded  of  the  future  happiness  of  my  soul.  I  have 
the  benefit  of  nature,  as  well  as  they ;  besides  infinite 
other  helps  that  they  wanted.  Oh  the  dullness  and  blind¬ 
ness  of  us  unworthy  Christians !  that  suffer  heathens, 
by  the  dim  candle-light  of  nature,  to  go  further  than  we 
by  the  clear  sun  of  the  gospel — that  an  indifferent  man 
could  not  tell  by  our  practice,  whether  were  the  pagan. 
Let  me  never  for  shame  account  myself  a  Christian,  un¬ 
less  my  art  of  Christianity  have  imitated  and  gone  be¬ 
yond  nature  so  far  that  I  can  find  the  best  heathen  as  far 
below  me  in  true  resolution,  as  the  vulgar  sort  were  below 
them.  Else,  I  may  shame  religion  ;  it  can  neither  hon¬ 
est  nor  help  me. 

LXXVII. 

If  I  would  be  irreligious  and  unconscionable,  I  would 
make  no  doubt  to  be  rich.  For  if  a  man  will  defraud, 
dissemble,  forswear,  bribe,  oppress,  serve  the  time,  make 
use  of  all  men  for  his  own  turn,  make  no  scruple  of  any 
wicked  action  for  his  advantage ;  I  cannot  see  how  he 
can  escape  wealth  and  preferment.  But  for  an  upright 
man  to  rise  is  difficult ;  while  his  conscience  straightly 
curbs  him  in  from  every  unjust  action,  and  will  not  al¬ 
low  him  to  advance  himself  by  indirect  means.  So 
riches  come  seldom  easily  to  a  good  man,  seldom  hardly 
to  the  conscienceless.  Happy  is  that  man  that  can  be 
rich  with  truth,  or  poor  with  contentment.  I  will  not 
envy  the  gravel  in  the  unjust  man’s  throat.  Of  riches, 


CENTURY  II. 


65 


let  me  never  have  more  than  an  honest  man  can  hear 
away. 

LXXVIII. 

God  is  the  God  of  order,  not  of  confusion.  As  there¬ 
fore  in  natural  things,  he  useth  to  proceed  from  one  ex¬ 
treme  to  another  by  degrees,  through  the  mean,  so  doth  he 
in  spiritual.  The  sun  riseth  not  at  once  to  his  highest, 
from  the  darkness  of  midnight ;  but  first  sends  forth  some 
feeble  glimmering  of  light  in  the  dawning ;  then  looks 
out  with  weak  and  waterish  beams  ;  and  so  by  degrees 
ascends  to  the  midst  of  heaven.  So  in  the  seasons  of 
the  year — we  are  not  one  day  scorched  with  a  summer 
heat,  and  on  the  next,  frozen  with  a  sudden  extremity 
of  cold.  But  winter  comes  on  softly  ;  first  by  cold  dews, 
then  hoar  frosts,  until  at  last  it  descend  to  the  hardest 
weather  of  all.  Such  are  God’s  spiritual  proceedings  ; 
He  never  brings  any  man  from  the  estate  of  sin  to  the 
estate  of  glory,  but  through  the  estate  of  grace.  And  as 
for  grace,  he  seldom  brings  a  man  from  gross  wicked¬ 
ness  to  any  eminence  of  perfection.  I  will  be  charitably 
jealous  of  these  men,  which,  from  notorious  lewdness 
leap  at  once  into  a  sudden  forwardness  of  profession. 
Holiness  doth  not — like  Jonah’s  gourd — grow  up  in  a 
night.  I  like  it  better  to  go  on  soft  and  sure,  than  for 
an  hasty  fit  to  run  myself  out  of  wind,  and  after,  stand 
still  and  breathe  me. 

LXXIX. 

It  hath  been  said  of  old — To  do  well  and  hear  ill,  is 
princely.  Which,  as  it  is  most  true,  by  reason  of  the 
envy  which  follows  upon  justice,  so  is  the  contrary  no 

5 


66 


MEDITATIONS  AND  TOWS. 


less  justified  by  many  experiments.  To  do  ill  and  to 
hear  well,  is  the  fashion  of  many  great  men.  To  do  ill, 
because  they  are  borne  out  with  the  assurance  of  impu¬ 
nity  ;  to  hear  well,  because  of  abundance  of  parasites, 
which  as  ravens  to  a  carcass,  gather  about  great  men. 
Neither  is  there  any  so  great  misery  in  greatness  as  this, 
that  it  conceals  men  from  themselves ;  and  when  they 
will  needs  have  a  sight  of  their  own  actions,  it  shows 
them  a  false  glass  to  look  in.  Meanness  of  state — that 
I  can  find — hath  none  so  great  inconvenience.  I  am  no 
whit  sorry  that  I  am  rather  subject  to  contempt  than 
flattery. 


LXXX. 

There  is  no  earthly  blessing  so  precious  as  health  of 
body  :  without  which,  all  other  worldly  good  things  are 
but  troublesome.  Neither  is  there  anything  more  diffi¬ 
cult  than  to  have  a  good  soul  in  a  strong  and  vigorous 
body  ;  for  it  is  commonly  seen  that  the  worse  part  draws 
away  the  better.  But  to  have  an  healthful  and  sound 
soul  in  a  weak,  sickly  body,  is  no  novelty  ;  whiles  the 
weakness  of  the  body  is  an  help  to  the  soul,  playing  the 
part  of  a  perpetual  monitor  to  incite  it  to  good  and  check 
it  for  evil.  I  will  not  be  over-glad  of  health,  nor  over¬ 
fearful  of  sickness.  I  will  more  fear  the  spiritual  hurt  that 
may  follow  upon  health,  than  the  bodily  pain  that  ac¬ 
companies  sickness. 

LXXXI. 

There  is  nothing  more  troublesome  to  a  good  mind, 
than  to  do  nothing.  For  besides  the  furtherance  of  our 
estate,  the  mind  doth  both  delight  and  better  itself  with 


CENTURY  II. 


67 


exercise.  There  is  but  this  difference  then  betwixt  la¬ 
bor  and  idleness,  that  labor  is  a  profitable  and  pleasant 
trouble ;  idleness,  a  trouble  both  unprofitable  and  com¬ 
fortless.  I  will  be  ever  doing;  something; ;  that  either 
God  when  he  cometh,  or  Satan  when  he  tempteth,  may 
find  me  busied.  And  yet,  since — as  the  old  proverb  is 
— better  it  is  to  be  idle,  than  effect  nothing,  I  will  not 
more  hate  doing  nothing,  than  doing  something  to  no 
purpose.  I  shall  do  good  but  a  while ;  let  me  strive  to 
do  it  while  I  may. 

LXXXII. 

A  faithful  man  hath  three  eyes — the  first,  of  sense,- 
common  to  him  with  brute  creatures  ;  the  second,  of  rea¬ 
son,  common  to  all  men  ;  the  third,  of  faith,  proper  to 
his  profession — whereof  each  looketh  beyond  other,  and 
none  of  them  meddleth  with  others’  objects.  For  nei¬ 
ther  doth  the  eye  of  sense  reach  to  intelligible  things  and 
matters  of  discourse ;  nor  the  eye  of  reason  to  those 
things  which  are  supernatural  and  spiritual ;  neither  doth 
faith  look  down  to  things  that  may  be  sensibly  seen.  If 
thou  discourse  to  a  brute  beast,  of  the  depths  of  philoso¬ 
phy,  never  so  plainly,  he  understands  not,  because  they 
are  beyond  the  view  of  his  eye,  which  is  only  of  sense. 
If  to  a  mere  carnal  man,  of  divine  things,  he  perceiveth 
not  the  things  of  God  ;  neither  indeed  can  do,  because 
they  are  spiritually  discerned.  And  therefore  no  wonder 
if  those  things  seem  unlikely,  incredible,  impossible  to 
him,  which  the  faithful  man — having  a  proportionable 
means  of  apprehension — doth  as  plainly  see,  as  his  eye 
doth  any  sensible  thing.  Tell  a  plain  countryman  that 
the  sun,  or  some  higher  or  lesser  star,  is  much  bigger 


68 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


than  his  cart-wheel,  or  at  least  so  many  scores  bigger 
than  the  whole  earth  ;  he  laughs  thee  to  scorn,  as  af¬ 
fecting  admiration  with  a  learned  untruth.  Yet  the 
scholar,  by  the  eye  of  reason,  doth  as  plainly  see  and  ac¬ 
knowledge  this  truth,  as  that  his  hand  is  bigger  than  his 
pen.  What  a  thick  mist,  yea  what  a  palpable  and  more 
than  Egyptian  darkness  doth  the  natural  man  live  in ! 
What  a  world  is  there  that  he  doth  not  see  at  all !  And 
how  little  doth  he  see  in  this,  which  is  his  proper  ele¬ 
ment  !  There  is  no  bodily  thing,  but  the  brute  crea¬ 
tures  see  as  well  as  he — and  some  of  them  better.  As 
for  his  eye  of  reason,  how  dim  it  is  in  those  things  which 
are  best  fitted  to  it !  What  one  thing  is  there  in  nature, 
which  he  doth  perfectly  know  ?  What  herb,  or  flower, 
or  worm  that  he  treads  on,  is  there,  whose  true  essence 
he  knoweth  ?  No,  not  so  much  as  what  is  in  his  own 
bosom — what  it  is,  where  it  is,  or  whence  it  is,  that  gives 
being  to  himself.  But  for  those  things  which  concern 
the  best  world,  he  doth  not  so  much  as  confusedly  see 
them,  neither  knoweth  whether  they  be.  He  sees  no 
whit  into  the  great  and  awful  majesty  of  God.  He  dis¬ 
cerns  Him  not  in  all  His  creatures,  filling  the  world  with 
His  infinite  and  glorious  presence.  He  sees  not  his 
wise  providence,  overruling  all  things,  disposing  all  cas¬ 
ual  events,  ordering  all  sinful  actions  of  men  to  His  own 
glory.  He  comprehends  nothing  of  the  beauty,  majes¬ 
ty,  power  and  mercy  of  the  Saviour  of  the  world,  sitting 
in  his  humanity  at  his  Father’s  right  hand.  He  sees 
not  the  unspeakable  happiness  of  the  glorified  souls  of 
the  saints.  He  sees  not  the  whole  heavenly  common¬ 
wealth  of  angels,  ascending  and  descending  to  the  be¬ 
hoof  of  God’s  children,  waiting  upon  him  at  all  times  in- 


CENTURY  II. 


69 


visibly — not  excluded  with  closeness  of  prisons  nor  deso¬ 
lateness  of  wildernesses — and  the  multitude  of  evil  spirits 
passing  and  standing  by  him  to  tempt  him  unto  evil : 
but,  like  unto  the  foolish  bird,  when  he  hath  hid  his 
head  that  he  sees  nobody,  he  thinks  himself  altogether 
unseen  ;  and  then  counts  himself  solitary,  when  his  eye 
can  meet  with  no  companion.  It  was  not  without  cause 
that  we  call  a  mere  fool,  a  natural.  For  however 
worldlings  have  still  thought  Christians  God’s  fools, 
we  know  them  the  fools  of  the  world.  The  deep¬ 
est  philosopher  that  ever  was — saving  the  reverence  of 
the  schools — is  but  an  ignorant  sot  to  the  simplest 
Christian.  For  the  weakest  Christian  may,  by  plain 
information,  see  somewhat  into  the  greatest  mysteries 
of  nature,  because  he  hath  the  eye  of  reason,  common 
with  the  best :  but  the  best  philosopher,  by  all  the  de¬ 
monstration  in  the  world,  can  conceive  nothing  of  the 
mysteries  of  godliness,  because  he  utterly  wants  the  eye 
of  faith.  Though  my  insight  into  matters  of  the  world 
be  so  shallow  that  my  simplicity  movetli  pity,  or  maketh 
sport  unto  others,  it  shall  be  my  contentment  and  happi¬ 
ness  that  I  see  further  into  better  matters.  That  which 
I  see  not,  is  worthless,  and  deserveth  little  better  than 
contempt.  That  which  I  see,  is  unspeakable,  inestima¬ 
ble,  for  comfort,  for  glory. 


LXXXIH. 

It  is  not  possible  for  an  inferior  to  live  at  peace,  un¬ 
less  he  have  learned  to  be  contemned.  For  the  pride  of 
his  superiors  and  the  malice  of  his  equals  and  inferiors 
shall  offer  him  continual  and  inevitable  occasions  of  un¬ 
quietness.  As  contentation  is  the  mother  of  inward 


70 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


peace  with  ourselvres,  so  is  humility  the  mother  of  peace 
•with  others.  For  if  thou  be  vile  in  thine  own  eyes  first, 
it  shall  the  less  trouble  thee  to  be  accounted  vile  of  oth¬ 
ers.  So  that  a  man  of  an  high  heart,  in  a  low  place, 
cannot  want  discontentment ;  whereas  a  man  of  lowly 
stomach  can  swallow  and  digest  contempt  without  any 
distemper.  For  wherein  can  he  be  the  worse  for  being 
contemned,  who  out  of  his  own  knowledge  of  his  deserts, 
did  most  of  all  contemn  himself?  I  should  be  very  im¬ 
provident,  if  in  this  calling  I  did  not  look  for  daily  con¬ 
tempt,  wherein  we  are  made  a  spectacle  to  the  world,  to 
angels,  and  men.  When  it  comes,  I  will  either  embrace 
it  or  contemn  it — embrace  it  when  it  is  within  my  mea¬ 
sure  ;  when  above,  contemn  it.  So  embrace  it,  that  I 
may  more  humble  myself  under  it ;  and  so  contemn  it, 
that  I  may  not  give  heart  to  him  that  offers  it,  nor  dis¬ 
grace  him  for  whom  I  am  contemned. 

LXXXIV. 

Christ  raised  three  dead  men  to  life — one  newly  de¬ 
parted,  another  on  the  bier,  a  third  smelling  in  the  grave 
— to  show  us  that  no  degree  of  death  is  so  desperate 
that  it  is  past  help.  My  sins  are  many  and  great ;  yet 
if  they  were  more,  they  are  far  below  the  mercy  of  him 
that  hath  remitted  them,  and  the  value  of  his  ransom 
that  hath  paid  for  them.  A  man  hurts  himself  most  by 
presumption ;  but  we  cannot  do  God  a  greater  wrong 
than  to  despair  of  forgiveness.  It  is  a  double  injury  to 
God  ;  first,  that  we  offend  his  justice  by  sinning;  then, 
that  we  wrong  his  mercy  with  despairing  and  so  forth. 


CENTURY  II. 


71 


LXXXV. 

For  a  man  to  be  weary  of  the  world,  through  mise¬ 
ries  that  he  meets  with,  and  for  that  cause  to  covet  death, 
is  neither  difficult  nor  commendable  ;  but  rather  argues 
a  base  weakness  of  mind.  So  it  may  be  a  cowardly 
part,  to  contemn  the  utmost  of  all  terrible  things,  in  a 
fear  of  lingering  misery ;  but  for  a  man  either  living 
happily  here  on  earth  or  resolving  to  live  miserably,  yet 
to  desire  his  removal  to  heaven,  doth  well  become  a  true 
Christian  courage,  and  argues  a  noble  mixture  of  pa¬ 
tience  and  faith.  Of  patience,  for  that  he  can  and  dare 
abide  to  live  sorrowfully ;  of  faith,  for  that  he  is  assured 
of  his  better  being  other-where,  and  therefore  prefers 
the  absent  joys  he  looks  for,  to  those  he  feels  in  present. 
No  sorrow  shall  make  me  wish  myself  dead,  that  I  may 
not  be  at  all.  No  contentment  shall  hinder  me  from 
wishing  myself  with  Christ,  that  I  may  be  happier. 

LXXXVI. 

It  was  not  for  nothing,  that  the  wise  Creator  of  all 
things  hath  placed  gold  and  silver  and  all  precious  min¬ 
erals  under  our  feet  to  be  trod  upon,  and  hath  hid 
them  low  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  that  they  cannot 
without  great  labor  be  either  found  or  gotten  ;  whereas 
he  hath  placed  the  noblest  part  of  his  creation  above  our 
heads,  and  that  so  open  to  our  view  that  we  cannot 
choose  but  every  moment  behold  them.  Wherein,  what 
did  he  else  intend,  but  to  draw  away  our  minds  from 
these  worthless  and  yet  hidden  treasures — to  which  he 
foresaw  we  would  be  too  much  addicted — and  to  call 
them  to  the  contemplation  of  those  better  things  which 


72 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


— beside  their  beauty — are  more  obvious  to  us,  that  in 
them  we  might  see  and  admire  the  glory  of  their  Maker 
and  withal  seek  our  own  ?  How  do  those  men  wrong 
themselves  and  misconstrue  God,  who — as  if  he  had 
hidden  these  things  because  he  wrould  have  them  sought, 
and  laid  the  other  open  for  neglect — bend  themselves 
wholly  to  the  seeking  of  these  earthly  commodities,  and 
do  no  more  mind  heaven  than  if  there  were  none  !  If 
we  could  imagine  a  beast  to  have  reason,  how  could  he  be 
more  absurd  in  his  choice  ?  Plow  easy  is  it  to  observe, 
that  still  the  higher  we  go,  the  more  purity  and  perfec¬ 
tion  we  find  ! — So  earth  is  the  very  dross  and  dregs  of 
all  the  elements ;  water  somewhat  more  pure  than  it, 
yet  also  more  feculent  than  the  air  above  it ;  the  lower 
air  less  pure  than  his  uppermost  regions  ;  and  yet  these 
as  far  inferior  to  the  lowest  heavens ;  which  again  are 
more  exceeded  by  the  glorious  and  empyreal  seat  of 
God,  which  is  the  heaven  of  the  just. — Yet  these  brutish 
men  take  up  their  rest,  and  place  their  felicity,  in  the 
lowest  and  worst  of  all  God’s  workmanship  ;  not  regard¬ 
ing  that  which  with  its  own  glory  can  make  them  hap¬ 
py.  Heaven  is  the  proper  place  of  my  soul.  I  wall  send 
it  up  thither  continually  in  my  thoughts,  whiles  it  so¬ 
journs  with  me,  before  it  go  to  dwell  there  forever. 

LXXXVII. 

A  man  need  not  to  care  for  more  knowledge  than  to 
know  himself ;  he  needs  no  more  pleasure  than  to  con¬ 
tent  himself ;  no  more  victory  than  to  overcome  him¬ 
self  ;  no  more  riches  than  to  enjoy  himself.  What  fools 
are  they  that  seek  to  know  all  other  things,  and  are 
strangers  in  themselves  ;  that  seek  altogether  to  satisfy 


CENTURY  II. 


73 


other  men’s  humours,  with  their  own  displeasure  ;  that 
seek  to  vanquish  kingdoms  and  countries,  when  they  are 
not  masters  of  themselves  ;  that  have  no  hold  of  their 
own  hearts,  yet  seek  to  be  possessed  of  all  outward  com¬ 
modities.  Go  home  to  thyself  first,  vain  heart,  and  when 
thou  hast  made  sure  work  there — in  knowing,  content¬ 
ing,  overcoming,  enjoying  thyself — spend  all  the  super- 
fluity  of  thy  time  and  labor  upon  others. 

LXXXVIII. 

It  was  an  excellent  rule  that  fell  from  the  epicure — - 
whose  name  is  odious  to  us,  for  the  father  of  looseness — 
that  if  a  man  would  be  rich,  honorable,  aged,  he  should 
not  strive  so  much  to  add  to  his  wealth,  reputation, 
years,  as  to  detract  from  his  desires.  For  certainly  in 
these  things  which  stand  most  upon  conceit,  he  hath  the 
most,  that  desireth  least.  A  poor  man  that  hath  little 
and  desires  no  more,  is  in  truth  richer  than  the  greatest 
monarch,  that  thinketh  he  hath  not  what  he  should,  or 
what  he  might,  or  that  grieves  there  is  no  more  to  have* 
It  is  not  necessity,  but  ambition,  that  sets  men’s  hearts 
on  the  rack.  If  I  have  meat,  drink,  apparel  I  will  learn 
therewith  to  be  content.  If  I  had  the  world  full  of 
wealth  beside,  I  could  enjoy  no  more  than  I  use ;  the 
rest  could  please  me  no  otherwise  but  by  looking  on. 
And  why  can  I  not  thus  solace  myself  while  it  is 
others’  ? 

LXXXIX. 

An  inconstant  and  wavering  mind,  as  it  makes  a  man 
unfit  for  society — for  that  there  can  be  no  assurance  of 
his  words  or  purposes,  neither  can  we  build  on  them 


74 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


without  deceit — so,  besides  that  it  makes  a  man  ridicu¬ 
lous,  it  hinders  him  from  ever  attaining  any  perfection 
in  himself — for  a  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss,  and  the 
mind,  while  it  would  be  everything,  proves  nothing :  oft 
changes  cannot  be  without  loss — yea,  it  keeps  him  from 
enjoying  that  which  he  hath  attained.  For  it  keeps  him 
ever  in  work  ;  building,  pulling  down,  selling,  changing, 
buying,  commanding,  forbidding.  So,  whiles  he  can  be 
no  other  man’s  friend,  he  is  the  least  his  own.  It  is  the 
safest  course  for  a  man’s  profit,  credit  and  ease,  to  delibe¬ 
rate  long,  to  resolve  surely  ;  hardly  to  alter  ;  not  to  enter 
upon  that  whose  end  he  foresees  not  answerable  ;  and 
when  he  is  once  entered,  not  to  surcease  till  he  have  at¬ 
tained  the  end  he  foresaw.  So  may  he  to  good  purpose 
begin  a  new  work,  when  he  hath  well  finished  the  old. 

XC. 

The  way  to  heaven  is  like  that  which  Jonathan  and 
his  armor-bearer  passed,  betwixt  two  rocks,  one  Bozez, 
the  other  Seneli — that  is,  foul  and  thorny — whereto  we 
must  make  shift  to  climb  on  our  hands  and  knees  ;  but 
when  we  are  come  up,  there  is  victory  and  triumph. 
God’s  children  have  three  suits  of  apparel ;  whereof 
two  are  worn  daily  on  earth,  the  third  laid  up  for  them 
in  the  wardrobe  of  heaven.  They  are  ever  either  in 
black,  mourning  ;  in  red,  persecuted  ;  or  in  white,  glori¬ 
ous.  Any  way  shall  be  pleasant  to  me,  that  leads  unto 
such  an  end.  It  matters  not  what  rags  or  what  colors  I 
wear  with  men,  so  I  may  walk  with  my  Saviour  in  white, 
and  reign  with  him  in  glory. 


CENTURY  II. 


75 


XCI. 

There  is  nothing  more  easy  than  to  say  divinity  by 
rote,  and  to  discourse  of  spiritual  matters  from  the  tongue 
or  pen  of  others ;  but  to  hear  God  speak  it  to  the  soul, 
and  to  feel  the  power  of  religion  in  ourselves,  and  to  ex¬ 
press  it  out  of  the  truth  of  experience  within,  is  both 
rare  and  hard.  All  that  we  feel  not  in  the  matters  of 
God,  is  but  hypocrisy ;  and  therefore  the  more  we  pro¬ 
fess,  the  more  we  sin.  It  will  never  be  well  with  me, 
till  in  these  greatest  things  I  be  careless  of  others’  cen¬ 
sures,  fearful  only  of  God’s  and  my  own  ;  till  sound  ex¬ 
perience  have  really  catechised  my  heart,  and  made  me 
know  God  and  my  Saviour  otherwise  than  by  words. 
I  will  never  be  quiet  till  I  can  see  and  feel  and  taste 
God.  My  hearing  I  will  account  as  only  serving  to  ef¬ 
fect  this,  and  my  speech  only  to  express  it. 

XCII. 

There  is  no  enemy  can  hurt  us,  but  by  our  own  hands. 
Satan  could  not  hurt  us,  if  our  own  corruption  betrayed 
us  not;  afflictions  cannot  hurt  us,  without  our  own  im¬ 
patience  ;  tentations  cannot  hurt  us,  without  our  own 
yieldance ;  death  could  not  hurt  us,  without  the  sting  of 
our  own  sins  ;  sin  could  not  hurt  us,  without  our  own 
impenitence.  How  might  I  defy  all  things,  if  I  could 
obtain  not  to  be  my  own  enemy !  I  love  myself  too 
much,  and  yet  not  enough.  0  God,  teach  me  to  wish 
myself  but  so  well  as  thou  wishest  me,  and  I  am  safe. 

XCIII. 

It  grieves  me  to  see  all  other  creatures  so  officious 


76 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


to  their  Maker  in  their  kind  ;  that  both  winds  and  sea, 
and  heaven,  and  earth,  obey  him  with  all  readiness ; 
that  each  of  these  hears  other,  and  all  of  them  their 
Creator,  though  to  the  destruction  of  themselves ;  and 
man  only  is  rebellious ;  imitating  herein  the  evil  spirits, 
who,  in  the  receipt  of  a  more  excellent  kind  of  reason, 
are  yet  more  perverse.  Hence  it  is  that  the  prophets 
are  oft  times  fain  to  turn  their  speech  to  the  earth  void 
of  all  sense  and  life,  from  this  living  earth  informed  with 
reason.  That  only  which  should  make  us  more  pliable, 
stiffeneth  us.  God  could  force  us,  if  he  pleased  ;  but  he 
had  rather  incline  us  by  gentleness.  I  must  stoop  to  his 
power — why  do  I  not  stoop  to  his  will  ?  It  is  a  vain 
thing  to  resist  His  voice,  whose  hand  we  cannot  resist. 

XCIV. 

As  all  natural  bodies  are  mixed,  so  must  all  our  moral 
disposition  :  no  simple  passion  doth  well.  If  our  joy  be 
not  allayed  with  sorrow,  it  is  madness ;  and  if  our  sor¬ 
row  be  not  tempered  with  some  mixture  of  joy,  it  is 
hellish  and  desperate.  If  in  these  earthly  things,  we 
hope  without  all  doubt,  or  fear  without  all  hope,  we  of¬ 
fend  on  both  sides.  If  we  labor  without  all  recreation, 
we  grow  dull  and  heartless ;  if  we  sport  ourselves  with¬ 
out  all  labor,  we  grow  wild  and  unprofitable.  These  com¬ 
positions  are  wholesome,  as  for  the  body,  so  for  the  mind ; 
which,  though  it  be  not  of  a  compounded  substance,  as 
the  body,  yet  hath  much  variety  of  qualities  and  affec¬ 
tions,  and  those  contrary  to  each  other.  I  care  not  how 
simple  my  heavenly  affections  are  ;  which,  the  more 
free  they  are  from  composition,  are  the  nearer  to  God ; 
nor  how  compounded  my  earthly,  which  are  easily  sub- 


CENTURY  II. 


77 


ject  to  extremities.  If  joy  come  alone,  I  will  ask  him 
for  his  fellow ;  and  evermore,  in  spite  of  him,  couple 
him  with  his  contrary ;  that  so  while  each  are  enemies 
to  other,  both  may  be  friends  to  me. 

xcv. 

Joy  and  sorrow  are  hard  to  conceal — as  from  the 
countenance,  so  from  the  tongue.  There  is  so  much 
correspondence  betwixt  the  heart  and  tongue,  that  they 
will  move  at  once.  Every  man  therefore  speaks  of  his 
own  pleasure  and  care : — the  hunter  and  falconer,  of  his 
games  ;  the  ploughman,  of  his  team  ;  the  soldier,  of  his 
march  and  colors.  If  the  heart  were  as  full  of  God,  the 
tongue  could  not  refrain  to  talk  of  him.  The  rareness 
of  Christian  communication  argues  the  common  poverty 
of  grace.  If  Christ  be  not  in  our  hearts,  we  are  godless  ; 
if  he  be  there  without  our  joy,  we  are  senseless  ;  if  we 
rejoice  in  him  and  speak  not  of  him,  we  are  shamefully 
unthankful.  Every  man  taketh,  yea  raiseth,  occasion 
to  bring  in  speech  of  what  he  liketh.  As  I  will  think 
of  thee  always,  O  Lord,  so  it  shall  be  my  joy  to  speak 
of  thee  often ;  and  if  I  find  not  opportunity,  I  will 
make  it. 

XCVI. 

When  I  see  my  Saviour  hanging  in  so  forlorn  a  fash¬ 
ion  'upon  the  cross ;  his  head  drooping  down,  his  tem¬ 
ples  bleeding  with  thorns,  his  hands  and  feet  with  the 
nails,  and  side  with  the  spear :  his  enemies  round  about 
him,  mocking  at  his  shame,  and  insulting  over  his  im¬ 
potence  ;  how  should  I  think  any  otherwise  of  him,  than 
— as  himself  complaineth — forsaken  of  his  Father? 


78 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


But  when  again  I  turn  mine  eyes  and  see  the  sun  dark¬ 
ened,  the  earth  quaking,  the  rocks  rent,  the  graves  open¬ 
ed,  the  thief  confessing,  to  give  witness  to  his  deity ;  and 
when  I  see  so  strong  a  guard  of  providence  over  him, 
that  all  his  malicious  enemies  are  not  able  so  much  as  to 
break  one  bone  of  that  body  which  seemed  carelessly 
neglected ;  I  cannot  but  wonder  at  his  glory  and  safety. 
God  is  ever  near,  though  oft  unseen ;  and  if  he  wink  at 
our  distress,  he  sleepeth  not.  The  sense  of  others  must 
not  be  judges  of  his  presence  and  care,  but  our  faith. 
What  care  I  if  the  world  give  me  up  for  miserable, 
whiles  I  am  under  his  secret  protection  ?  O  Lord,  since 
thou  art  strong  in  our  weakness,  and  present  in  our 
senselessness,  give  me  but  as  much  comfort  in  my  sor¬ 
row,  as  thou  givest  me  security,  and  at  my  worst  I  shall 
be  well. 

XCVII. 

In  sins  and  afflictions,  our  course  must  be  contrary  ; 
we  must  begin  to  detest  the  greatest  sin  first,  and  de¬ 
scend  to  the  hatred  of  the  least ;  we  must  first  beffln  to 
suffer  small  afflictions  with  patience,  that  we  may  ascend 
to  the  endurance  of  the  greatest.  Then  alone  shall  I  be 
happy,  when,  by  this  holy  method,  I  have  drawn  my 
soul  to  make  conscience  of  the  least  evil  of  sin,  and  not 
to  shrink  at  the  greatest  evil  of  affliction. 

XCVIII. 

Prescription  is  no  plea  against  the  king ;  much  less 
can  long  custom  plead  for  error  against  that  our  supreme 
Lord,  to  whom  a  thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday  : — 
yea,  Time,  which  pleads  voluntarily  for  continuance  of 


CENTURY  II. 


79 


tilings  lawful,  will  take  no  fee  not  to  speak  against  an  evil 
use.  Hath  an  ill  custom  lasted  long  ?  It  is  more  than  time 
it  were  abrogated  :  age  is  an  aggravation  to  sin.  Heresy  or 
abuse,  if  it  be  grey-headed,  deserves  sharper  opposition. 
To  say,  I  will  do  ill  because  I  have  done  so,  is  perilous  and 
impious  presumption.  Continuance  can  no  more  make 
any  wickedness  safe,  than  the  author  of  sin,  no  devil.  If 
I  have  once  sinned,  it  is  too  much  ;  if  oft,  woe  be  to  me 
if  the  iteration  of  my  offence  cause  boldness,  and  not 
rather  more  sorrow,  more  detestation :  woe  be  to  me 
and  my  sin,  if  I  be  not  the  better  because  I  have  sinned. 

XCIX. 

It  is  strange  to  see  the  varieties  and  proportions  of 
spiritual  and  bodily  diets.  There  be  some  creatures 
that  are  fatted  and  delighted  with  poisons ;  others  live 
by  nothing  but  air ;  and  some,  they  say,  by  fire.  Others 
will  taste  no  water  but  muddy  ;  others  feed  on  their  fel¬ 
lows,  or,  perhaps,  on  part  of  themselves  ;  others,  on  the 
excretions  of  nobler  creatures.  Some  search  into  the 
earth  for  sustenance,  or  dive  into  the  waters ;  others 
content  themselves  with  what  the  upper  earth  yields 
them  without  violence.  All  these,  and  more,  are  an¬ 
swered  in  the  palate  of  the  soul.  There  be  some,  yea  the 
most,  to  whom  sin, — which  is  of  a  most  venomous  na¬ 
ture — is  both  food  and  dainties  ;  others,  that  think  it  the 
only  life,  to  feed  on  the  popular  air  of  applause  ;  others, 
that  are  never  well  out  of  the  fire  of  contentions,  and 
that  wilfully  trouble  all  waters  with  their  private  hu¬ 
mors  and  opinions  ;  others,  whose  cruelty  delights  in  op¬ 
pression  and  blood — yea,  whose  envy  gnaws  upon  their 
own  hearts ;  others,  that  take  pleasure  to  revive  the 


80 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


wicked  and  foul  heresies  of  the  greater  wits  of  the  for¬ 
mer  times  ;  others,  whose  worldly  minds  root  altogether 
in  earthly  cares  ;  or  who,  not  content  with  the  ordinary 
provision  of  doctrine,  affect  obscure  subtilties,  unknown 
to  wiser  men ;  others,  whose  too  indifferent  minds  feed 
on  whatever  opinion  comes  next  to  hand,  without  any 
careful  disquisition  of  truth  : — so  some  feed  foul ;  others, 
but  few,  clean  and  wholesome.  As  there  is  no  beast 
upon  earth  which  hath  not  his  like  in  the  sea,  and  which, 
perhaps,  is  not  in  some  sort  paralleled  in  the  planets  of 
the  earth ;  so  there  is  no  bestial  disposition,  which  is  not 
answerably  found  in  some  men.  Mankind  therefore 
hath  within  itself  his  goats,  chameleons,  salamanders, 
camels,  wolves,  dogs,  swine,  moles,  and  whatever  sorts 
of  beasts.  There  are  but  a  few  men  amongst  men.  To 
a  wise  man,  the  shape  is  not  so  much  as  the  qualities. 
If  I  be  not  a  man  within,  in  my  choices,  affections,  incli¬ 
nations,  it  had  been  better  for  me  to  have  been  a  beast 
without.  A  beast  is  but  like  itself ;  but  an  evil  man  is 
half  a  beast  and  half  a  devil. 

C. 

Forced  favors  are  thankless  and  commonly  with  no¬ 
ble  minds  find  no  acceptation.  For  a  man  to  give  his 
soul  to  God,  when  he  sees  he  can  no  longer  hold  it ;  or 
to  bestow  his  goods,  when  he  is  forced  to  part  with 
them ;  or  to  forsake  his  sin,  when  he  cannot  follow  it ; 
are  but  unkind  and  cold  obediences.  God  sees  our  ne¬ 
cessity  and  scorns  our  compelled  offers.  What  man  of 
any  generous  spirit  will  abide  himself  made  the  last  re¬ 
fuge  of  a  craved,  denied,  and  constrained  courtesy  ? 
While  God  gives  me  leave  to  keep  my  soul,  yet  then  to 


CENTURY  II. 


81 


bequeath  it  to  him ;  and  whiles  strength  and  opportuni¬ 
ty  serve  me  to  sin,  then  to  forsake  it ;  is  both  accepted 
and  crowned.  God  loves  neither  grudged,  nor  necessa¬ 
ry  gifts :  I  will  offer  betimes,  that  he  may  vouchsafe  to 
take  :  I  will  give  him  the  best,  that  he  may  take  all. 

O  God,  give  me  this  grace,  that  I  may  give  thee  my¬ 
self  freely  and  seasonably ;  and  then  I  know  thou  canst 
not  but  accept  me,  because  this  gift  is  thine  own. 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


CENTURY  III. 


i. 

Good  men  are  placed  by  God  as  so  many  stars  in 
the  lower  firmament  of  the  world.  As  they  must  imi¬ 
tate  those  heavenly  bodies  in  their  light  and  influence, 
so  also  in  their  motion.  And  therefore  as  the  planets 
have  a  course  proper  to  themselves,  against  the  sway  of 
the  heaven  that  carries  them  about,  so  must  each  good 
man  have  a  motion  out  of  his  own  judgment,  contrary  to 
the  customs  and  opinions  of  the  vulgar ;  finishing  his 
own  course  with  the  least  show  of  resistance.  I  will 
never  affect  singularity,  except  it  be  among  those  that 
are  vicious.  It  is  better  to  do  or  think  well,  alone,  than 
to  follow  a  multitude  in  evil. 

H. 

What  strange  variety  of  actions  doth  the  eye  of  God 
see  at  once  round  about  the  compass  of  the  earth  and 
within  it!  Some  building  houses;  some  delving  for 
metals ;  some  marching  in  troops,  or  encamping  one 


CENTURY  III. 


83 


against  another  ;  some  bargaining  in  the  market ;  some 
traveling  on  their  way  ;  some  praying  in  their  closets  ; 
others  quaffing  at  the  tavern  ;  some  rowing  in  the  gal¬ 
leys  ;  others  dallying  in  their  chambers ;  and  in  short, 
as  many  different  actions  as  persons  :  yet  all  have  one 
common  intention  of  good  to  themselves — true  in  some, 
but  in  the  most,  imaginary.  The  glorified  spirits  have 
but  one  uniform  work,  wherein  they  all  join — the  praise 
of  their  Creator.  This  is  one  difference  betwixt  the 
saints  above  and  below.  They  above,  are  free  both 
from  business  and  distraction :  these  below  are  free — 
though  not  absolutely — from  distraction;  not  at  all  from 
business.  Paul  could  think  of  the  cloak  that  he  left  at 
Troas,  and  of  the  shaping  of  his  skins  for  his  tents  ;  yet 
through  these  he  looked  still  at  heaven.  This  world  is 
made  for  business.  My  actions  must  vary  according  to 
occasions  :  my  end  shall  be  but  one,  and  the  same  now 
on  earth  that  it  must  be  one  day  in  heaven. 

III. 

To  see  how  the  martyrs  of  God  died,  and  the  life  of 
their  persecutors,  would  make  a  man  out  of  love  with 
life,  and  out  of  all  fear  of  death.  They  were  flesh  and 
blood  as  well  as  we  ;  life  was  as  sweet  to  them  as  to  us ; 
their  bodies  were  as  sensible  of  pain  as  ours  ;  we  go  to 
the  same  heaven  with  them.  How  comes  it  then  that 
they  were  so  courageous  in  abiding  such  torments  in 
their  death,  as  the  very  mention  strikes  horror  into  any 
reader,  and  we  are  so  cowardly  in  encountering  a  fair 
and  natural  death  ?  If  this  valor  had  been  of  themselves 
I  would  never  have  looked  after  them  in  hope  of  imita¬ 
tion.  Now  I  know  it  was  He  for  whom  they  suffered, 


84 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


and  that  suffered  in  them,  which  sustained  them.  They 
were  of  themselves  as  weak  as  I ;  and  God  can  be  as 
strong  in  me  as  he  was  in  them.  O  Lord,  thou  art  not 
more  unable  to  give  me  this  grace,  but  I  am  more  un¬ 
worthy  to  receive  it:  and  yet  thou  regardest  not  wor¬ 
thiness,  but  mercy.  Give  me  their  strength,  and  what 
end  thou  wilt. 


IV. 

Our  first  age  is  all  in  hope.  When  we  are  in  the 
womb,  who  knows  whether  we  shall  have  our  right 
shape  and  proportion  of  body — being  neither  monstrous 
nor  deformed  ?  When  we  are  born,  who  knows  whether 
with  the  due  features  of  a  man  we  shall  have  the  facul¬ 
ties  of  reason  and  understanding  ?  When  yet  our  progress 
jn  years  discovereth  wit  or  folly,  who  knows  whether  with 
the  power  of  reason  we  shall  have  the  grace  of  faith  to 
be  Christians  ?  And  when  we  begin  to  profess  well, 
whether  it  be  a  temporary  and  seeming,  or  a  true  and 
saving  faith  ?  Our  middle  age  is  half  in  hope  for 
the  future  and  half  in  proof  for  that  is  past.  Our  old 
age  is  out  of  hope  and  altogether  in  proof.  In  our  last 
times,  therefore,  we  know  both  what  we  have  been  and 
what  to  expect.  It  is  good  for  youth  to  look  forward, 
and  still  to  propound  the  best  things  unto  itself :  for  an 
old  man,  to  look  backward  and  to  repent  him  of  that 
wherein  he  hath  failed  and  to  recollect  himself  for  the 
present.  But  in  my  middle  age,  I  will  look  both  back¬ 
ward  and  forward,  comparing  my  hopes  with  my  proof, 
redeeming  the  time  ere  it  be  all  spent,  that  my  recovery 
may  prevent  my  repentance.  It  is  both  a  folly  and  mis¬ 
ery  to  say,.  This  I  might  have  done. 


CENTURY  III. 


85 


V. 

It  is  the  wonderful  mercy  of  God,  both  to  forgive  us 
our  debts  to  him  in  our  sins,  and  to  make  himself  a  debt¬ 
or  to  us  in  his  promises.  So  that  now  both  ways  the 
soul  may  be  sure  ;  since  he  neither  calleth  for  those 
debts  which  he  hath  once  forgiven,  nor  withdraweth 
those  favors  and  that  heaven  which  he  hath  promised  : 
but  as  he  is  a  merciful  creditor  to  forgive,  so  he  is  a  true 
debtor  to  pay  whatsoever  he  hath  undertaken.  Whence 
it  is  come  to  pass  that  the  penitent  sinner  owes  nothing  to 
God  but  love  and  obedience,  and  God  owes  still  much 
and  all  to  him  ;  for  he  owes  as  much  as  he  hath  prom¬ 
ised,  and  what  he  owes  by  virtue  of  his  blessed  promise, 
we  may  challenge.  O  infinite  mercy !  He  that  lent 
us  all  that  we  have,  and  in  whose  debt-books  we  run 
hourly  forward  till  the  sum  be  endless,  yet  owes  us  more, 
and  bids  us  look  for  payment.  I  cannot  deserve  the 
least  favor  he  can  give  ;  yet  will  I  as  confidently  chal¬ 
lenge  the  greatest,  as  if  I  deserved  it.  Promise  indebt- 
eth  no  less  than  loan  or  desert. 

VI. 

It  is  no  small  commendation  to  manage  a  little,  well. 
He  is  a  good  wagoner  who  can  turn  in  a  narrow  room. 
To  live  well  in  abundance,  is  the  praise  of  the  estate, 
not  of  the  person.  I  will  study  more  how  to  give  a  good 
account  of  my  little,  than  how  to  make  it  more. 

VII. 

Many  Christians  do  greatly  wrong  themselves  with  a 
dull  and  heavy  kind  of  sullenness ;  who,  not  suffering 


86 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


themselves  to  delight  in  any  worldly  thing,  are  there¬ 
upon  oft  times  so  heartless  that  they  delight  in  nothing. 
These  men,  like  to  careless  guests  when  they  are  invi¬ 
ted  to  an  excellent  banquet,  lose  their  dainties  for  want 
of  a  stomach,  and  lose  their  stomach  for  want  of  exer¬ 
cise.  A  good  conscience  keeps  always  good  cheer.  He 
cannot  choose  but  fare  well  that  hath  it,  unless  he  lose 
his  appetite  with  neglect  and  slothfulness.  It  is  a  shame 
for  us  Christians  not  to  find  as  much  joy  in  God,  as 
worldlings  do  in  their  forced  merriments,  and  lewd 
wretches  in  the  practice  of  their  sins. 

VIII. 

A  wise  Christian  hath  no  enemies.  Many  hate  and 
wrong  him,  but  he  loves  all  men  and  all  pleasure  him. 
Those  that  profess  love  to  him,  pleasure  him  with  the 
comfort  of  their  society  and  the  mutual  reflection  of 
friendship ;  those  that  profess  hatred,  make  him  more 
wary  of  his  ways,  show  him  faults  in  himself  which  his 
friends  would  either  not  have  espied  or  not  censured, 
send  him  the  more  willingly  to  seek  favor  above :  and 
as  the  worst  do  bestead  him,  though  against  their  wills, 
so  he  again  doth  voluntarily  good  to  them.  To  do  evil 
for  evil — as  Joab  to  Abner — is  a  sinful  weakness :  to 
do  good  for  good — as  Ahasuerus  to  Mordecai — is  but 
natural  justice  :  To  do  evil  for  good — as  Judas  to  Christ 
— is  unthankfulness  and  villainy.  Only  to  do  good  for 
evil,  agrees  with  Christian  profession  ;  and  what  greater 
work  of  friendship  than  to  do  good  !  If  men  will  not  be 
my  friends  in  love,  I  will  perforce  make  them  my  friends 
in  a  good  use  of  their  hatred.  I  will  be  their  friend,  that 
are  mine  and  would  not  be. 


CENTURY  III. 


87 


IX. 

All  temporal  things  are  troublesome  :  for  if  we  have 
good  things,  it  is  a  trouble  to  forego  them ;  and  when 
we  see  they  must  be  parted  from,  either  we  wish  they 
had  not  been  so  good  or  that  we  never  had  enjoyed  them. 
Yea,  it  is  more  trouble  to  lose  them  than  it  was  before 
joy  to  possess  them.  If,  contrarily,  we  have  evil  things, 
their  very  presence  is  troublesome  ;  and  still  we  wish 
that  they  were  good,  or  that  we  were  disburdened  of  them. 
So  good  things  are  troublesome  in  event,  evil  things  in 
their  use  ;  they  in  the  future,  these  in  present :  they,  be¬ 
cause  they  shall  come  to  an  end ;  these,  because  they  do 
continue.  Tell  me  thy  wife  or  thy  child  lies  dying  and 
now  makes  up  a  loving  and  dutiful  life  with  a  kind  and 
loving  parture  : — whether  hadst  thou  rather,  for  thy  own 
part,  she  had  been  so  good  or  worse  ?  Would  it  have 
cost  thee  so  many  hearty  sighs  and  tears  if  she  had  been 
perverse  and  disobedient  ?  Yet,  if  in  her  lifetime  I  put 
thee  to  this  choice,  thou  thinkest  it  no  choice  at  all  in 
such  inequality.  It  is  more  torment,  sayest  thou,  to  live 
one  unquiet  month  than  it  is  pleasure  to  live  an  age  in 
love.  Or  if  thy  life  be  yet  dearer  : — thou  hast  lived  to 
grey  hairs  ;  not  hastened  with  care,  but  bred  with  late 
succession  of  years ;  thy  table  was  ever  covered  with 
variety  of  dishes  ;  thy  back  softly  and  richly  clad  ;  thou 
never  gavest  denial  to  either  skin  or  stomach  ;  thou  ever 
favoredst  thyself ;  and  health,  thee.  Now  death  is  at 
thy  threshold  and  unpartially  knocks  at  thy  door,  dost 
thou  not  wish  thou  hadst  lived  with  crusts  and  been 
clothed  with  rags  ?  Wouldst  not  thou  have  given  a  bet¬ 
ter  welcome  to  death,  if  he  had  found  thee  lying  upon  a 


88 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


pallet  of  straw  and  supping  of  water-gruel,  after  many 
painful  nights  and  many  sides  changed  in  vain  ?  Yet 
this  beggarly  estate  thou  detestest  in  health,  and  pitiest 
in  others,  as  truly  miserable.  The  sum  is,  a  beggar 
wisheth  he  might  be  a  monarch,  while  he  lives ;  and  the 
great  potentate  wisheth  he  had  lived  a  beggar,  when  he 
comes  to  die ;  and  if  beggary  be  to  have  nothing,  he 
shall  be  so  in  death,  though  he  wished  it  not.  Nothing 
therefore  but  eternity  can  make  a  man  truly  happy,  as 
nothing  can  make  perfect  misery  but  eternity :  for  as 
temporal  good  things  afflict  us  in  their  ending,  so  tempo¬ 
ral  sorrows  afford  us  joy  in  the  hope  of  their  end.  What 
folly  is  this  in  us — to  seek  for  our  trouble,  to  neglect 
our  happiness  !  I  can  be  but  well ;  and  this,  that  I  was 
well,  shall  one  day  be  grievous.  Nothing  shall  please 
me,  but  that  once  I  shall  be  happy  forever. 

X. 

The  eldest  of  our  forefathers  lived  not  so  much  as  a 
day  to  God,  to  whom  a  thousand  years  is  as  no  more. 
We  live  but  as  an  hour  to  the  day  of  our  forefathers ; 
for  if  nine  hundred  and  sixty  were  but  their  day,  our 
fourscore  is  but  as  the  twelfth  part  of  it.  And  yet  of 
this  our  hour,  we  live  scarce  a  minute  to  God :  for  take 
away  all  that  time  that  is  consumed  in  sleeping,  dressing, 
feeding,  talking,  sporting,  of  that  little  time  there  can  re¬ 
main  not  much  more  than  nothing  :  yet  the  most  seek 
pastimes  to  hasten  it.  Those  which  seek  to  mend  the 
pace  of  time  spur  a  running  horse.  I  had  more  need  to 
redeem  it  with  double  care  and  labor,  than  to  seek  how 
to  sell  it  for  nothing. 


CENTURY  III. 


89 


XI. 

Each  day  is  a  new  life  and  an  abridgment  of  the 
whole.  I  will  so  live  as  if  I  counted  every  day  my  first 
and  my  last ;  as  if  I  began  to  live  but  then,  and  should 
live  no  more  afterwards. 


XII. 

It  was  not  in  vain  that  the  ancient  founders  of  lan¬ 
guages  used  the  same  word  in  many  tongues  to  signify 
both  honor  and  charge  ;  meaning  therein  to  teach  us  the 
inseparable  connection  of  these  two  :  for  there  scarce 
ever  was  any  charge  without  some  opinion  of  honor ; 
neither  ever  was  there  honor  without  a  charge :  which 
two,  as  they  are  not  without  reason  joined  together  in 
name  by  human  institutions,  so  they  are  most  wisely 
coupled  together  by  God  in  the  disposition  of  these 
worldly  estates.  Charge,  without  honor  to  make  it 
amends,  would  be  too  toilsome ;  and  must  needs  discou¬ 
rage  and  over-lay  a  man.  Honor,  without  charge,  would 
be  too  pleasant ;  and  therefore  both  would  be  too  much 
sought  after,  and  must  needs  carry  away  the  mind  in  the 
enjoying  it.  Now  many  dare  not  be  ambitious  because 
of  the  burden  ;  choosing  rather  to  live  obscurely  and  se¬ 
curely  ;  and  yet  on  the  other  side  those  that  are  under 
it  are  refreshed  in  the  charge  with  the  sweetness  of  hon¬ 
or.  Seeing  they  cannot  be  separated,  it  is  not  the  worst 
estate  to  want  both.  They  whom  thou  enviest  for  hon¬ 
or,  perhaps  envy  thee  more  for  thy  quietness. 

XIII. 

He  that  taketli  his  own  cares  upon  himself,  loads  him- 


90 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


self  in  vain  with  an  uneasy  burden.  The  fear  of  what 
may  come,  expectation  of  what  will  come,  desire  of  what 
will  not  come,  and  inability  of  redressing  all  these,  must 
needs  breed  him  continual  torment.  I  will  cast  my  cares 
upon  God.  He  hath  bidden  me  ;  they  cannot  hurt  him  ; 
he  can  redress  them. 


XIV. 

Our  infancy  is  full  of  folly ;  youth,  of  disorder  and 
toil ;  age,  of  infirmity.  Each  time  hath  his  burden,  and 
that  which  may  justly  work  our  weariness. — Yet  infancy 
longeth  after  youth,  and  youth  after  more  age,  and  he  that 
is  very  old,  as  he  is  a  child  for  simplicity,  so  he  would  be 
for  years.  I  account  old  age  the  best  of  three ;  partly, 
for  that  it  hath  passed  thorough  the  folly  and  disorder  of 
the  others ;  partly,  for  that  the  inconveniences  of  this 
are  but  bodily,  with  a  bettered  estate  of  the  mind,  and 
partly  for  that  it  is  nearest  to  dissolution.  There  is  no¬ 
thing  more  miserable  than  an  old  man  that  would  be 
young  again.  It  was  an  answer  worthy  the  commenda¬ 
tions  of  Petrarch,  and  that  which  argued  a  mind  truly 
philosophical  of  him,  who — when  his  friend  bemoaned 
his  age  appearing  in  his  white  temples,  telling  him  he 
was  sorry  to  see  him  look  so  old — replied,  Nay,  be  sorry 
rather  that  ever  I  was  young,  to  be  a  fool. 


XV. 

There  is  not  the  least  action  or  event — whatever  the 
vain  epicures  have  imagined — which  is  not  overruled 
and  disposed  by  a  providence  :  which  is  so  far  from  de¬ 
tracting  aught  from  the  majesty  of  God,  for  that  the 
things  are  small,  as  that  there  can  be  no  greater  honor 


CENTURY  III. 


91 


to  him  than  to  extend  his  providence  and  decree  to  them, 
because  they  are  infinite.  Neither  doth  this  hold  in  na¬ 
tural  things  only,  which  are  chained  one  to  another  by  a 
regular  order  of  succession,  but  even  in  those  things 
which  fall  out  by  casualty  and  imprudence.  Whence 
that  worthy  father,  when  as  his  speech  digressed  his  in¬ 
tention  to  a  confutation  of  the  errors  of  the  Manichees, 
could  presently  guess  that  in  that  unpurposed  turning  of 
it,  God  intended  the  conversion  of  some  unknown  audi¬ 
tor  ;  as  the  event  proved  his  conjecture  true  ere  many 
days.  When  aught  falls  out  contrary  to  that  I  purposed, 
it  shall  content  me  that  God  purposed  it  as  it  is  fallen 
out.  So  the  thing  hath  attained  his  own  end,  whiles  it 
missed  mine.  I  know  what  I  would,  but  God  knoweth 
what  I  should,  will.  It  is  enough  that  his  will  is  done, 
though  mine  be  crossed. 

XVI. 

It  is  the  most  thankless  office  in  the  world  to  be  a 
man’s  pander  unto  sin.  In  other  wrongs,  one  man  is  a 
wolf  to  another ;  but  in  this,  a  devil.  And  though,  at 
the  first,  this  damnable  service  carry  away  reward,  yet 
in  conclusion  it  is  requited  with  hatred  and  curses.  For 
as  the  sick  man,  extremely  distasted  with  a  lothsome  po¬ 
tion,  hateth  the  very  cruse  wherein  it  was  brought  him,  so 
doth  the  conscience,  once  soundly  detesting  sin,  lothe 
the  means  that  induced  him  to  commit  it.  Contrarily, 
who  withstands  a  man  in  his  prosecution  of  a  sin  while  he 
doteth  upon  it,  bears  away  frowns  and  heart-burnings 
for  a  time  ;  but  when  the  offending  party  comes  to  him¬ 
self  and  right  reason,  he  recompenseth  his  former  dislike 
with  so  much  more  love  and  so  many  more  thanks. 


92 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


The  frantic  man  returned  to  his  wits,  thinks  him  his  best 
friend  that  bound  him  and  beat  him  most.  1  will  do  my 
best  to  cross  any  man  in  his  sins  :  if  I  have  not  thanks 
of  him,  yet  of  my  conscience  I  shall. 

XVII. 

God  must  be  magnified  in  his  very  judgments.  He 
looks  for  praise  not  only  for  heaven,  but  for  hell  also. 
His  justice  is  himself,  as  well  as  his  mercy.  As  heaven 
then  is  for  the  praise  of  his  mercy,  so  hell  for  the  glory 
of  his  justice.  We  must  therefore  be  so  affected  to 
judgments  as  the  author  of  them  is,  who  delighteth  not 
in  blood,  as  it  makes  his  creature  miserable,  but  as  it 
makes  his  justice  glorious.  Every  true  Christian  then 
must  learn  to  sing  that  compound  ditty  of  the  psalmist — 
i  of  mercy  and  judgment.’  It  shall  not  only  joy  me  to 
see  God  gracious  and  bountiful  in  his  mercies  and  de¬ 
liverances  of  his  own,  but  also  to  see  him  terrible  in 
vengeance  to  his  enemies.  It  is  no  cruelty  to  rejoice  in 
justice.  The  foolish  mercy  of  men  is  cruelty  to  God. 

XVIII. 

Rareness  causeth  wonder,  and  more  than  that,  incre¬ 
dulity,  in  those  things  which  in  themselves  are  not  more 
admirable  than  the  ordinary  proceedings  of  nature.  If 
a  blazing  star  be  seen  in  the  sky,  every  man  goes  forth 
to  gaze,  and  spends  every  evening  some  time  in  won¬ 
dering  at  the  beams  of  it.  That  any  fowl  should  be 
bred  of  corrupted  wood  resolved  into  worms ;  or  that 
the  chameleon  should  ever  change  his  colors  and  live  by 
air  ;  that  the  ostrich  should  digest  iron  ;  that  the  phoe¬ 
nix  should  burn  herself  to  ashes,  and  from  thence  breed 


CENTURY  III. 


93 


a  successor — we  wonder,  and  can  scarce  credit.  Other 
things  more  usual,  no  less  miraculous,  we  know  and 
neglect.  That  there  should  be  a  bird  that  knoweth  and 
noteth  the  hours  of  day  and  night,  as  certainly  as  any 
astronomer  by  the  course  of  heaven,  if  we  knew  not, 
who  would  believe  ?  Or  that  the  loadstone  should  by 
his  secret  virtue,  so  draw  iron  to  itself  as  that  a  whole 
chain  of  needles  should  all  hang  by  insensible  points  at 
each  other,  only  by  the  influence  that  it  sends  down 
from  the  first, — if  it  were  not  ordinary,  would  seem  in¬ 
credible.  Who  would  believe,  when  he  sees  a  fowl 
mounted  as  high  as  his  sight  can  descry  it,  that  there  were 
an  engine  to  be  framed  which  could  fetch  it  down  into 
his  fist  ?  Yea,  to  omit  infinite  examples,  that  a  little  de¬ 
spised  creature  should  weave  nets  out  of  her  own  en¬ 
trails,  and  in  her  platforms  of  building  should  observe 
as  just  proportions  as  the  best  geometrician,  we  should 
suspect  for  an  untruth,  if  we  saw  it  not  daily  practised  in 
our  own  windows.  If  the  sun  should  arise  but  once  to 
the  earth,  I  doubt  every  man  would  be  a  Persian  and 
fall  down  and  worship  it ;  whereas  now  it  riseth  and  de- 
clineth  without  any  regard.  Extraordinary  events  each 
man  can  wonder  at.  The  frequence  of  God’s  best 
works  causeth  neglect ;  not  that  they  are  ever  the  worse 
for  commonness  ;  but  because  we  are  soon  cloyed  with 
the  same  conceit,  and  have  contempt  bred  in  us  through 
familiarity.  I  will  learn  to  note  God’s  power  and  wis¬ 
dom,  and  to  give  him  praise  of  both  in  his  ordinary 
works.  So  those  things  which  are  but  trivial  to  the 
most  ignorant,  shall  be  wonders  to  me  ;  and  that  not  for 
nine  days,  but  forever. 


94 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


XIX. 

Those  that  affect  to  tell  novelties  and  wonders  fall 
into  many  absurdities ;  both  in  busy  inquiry  after  mat¬ 
ters  impertinent,  and  in  a  light  credulity  to  whatever 
they  hear  ;  and  in  fictions  of  their  own,  and  additions  of 
circumstances  to  make  their  reports  the  more  admired. 
I  have  noted  these  men  not  so  much  wondered  at  for 
their  strange  stories,  while  they  are  telling,  as  derided 
afterwards,  when  the  event  hath  wrought  their  disproof 
and  shame.  I  will  deal  with  rumors  as  grave  men  do 
by  strange  fashions — -take  them  up  when  they  are  grown 
into  common  use  before.  I  may  believe,  but  I  will  not 
relate  them,  but  under  the  name  of  my  author ;  who 
shall  either  warrant  me  with  defence,  if  it  be  true  ;  or  if 
false,  bear  my  shame. 

XX. 

It  was  a  witty  and  true  speech  of  that  obscure  Hera¬ 
clitus,  that  all  men  awaking  are  in  one  common  world  ; 
but  when  we  sleep,  each  man  goes  into  a  several  world 
by  himself ;  which  though  it  be  but  a  world  of  fancies, 
yet  is  the  true  image  of  that  little  world  which  is  in 
every  man’s  heart.  For  the  imaginations  of  our  sleep 
show  us  what  our  disposition  is  awaking  ;  and  as  many  in 
their  dreams  reveal  those  their  secrets  to  others  which 
they  would  never  have  done  awake  ;  so  all  may  and  do 
disclose  to  themselves,  in  their  sleep,  those  secret  incli¬ 
nations  which,  after  much  searching,  they  could  not  have 
found  out  waking.  I  doubt  not  therefore  but  as  God 
heretofore  hath  taught  future  things  in  dreams, — which 
kind  of  revelation  is  now  ceased, — so  still  he  teacheth  the 


CENTURY  III. 


95 


present  estate  of  the  heart  this  way.  Some  dreams  are 
from  ourselves, — vain  and  idle  like  ourselves.  Others 
are  divine,  which  teach  us  good  or  move  us  to  good : 
and  others  devilish,  which  solicit  us  to  evil.  Such  an¬ 
swer  commonly  shall  I  give  to  any  temptation  in  the  day 
as  I  do  by  night.  I  will  not  lightly  pass  over  my  very 
dreams.  They  shall  teach  me  somewhat ;  so  neither 
night  nor  day  shall  be  spent  unprofitably.  The  night 
shall  teach  me  what  I  am  ;  the  day,  what  I  should  be. 

XXL 

Men  make  difference  betwixt  servants,  friends,  and 
sons.  Servants,  though  near  us  in  place,  yet  for  their 
inferiority,  are  not  familiar.  Friends,  though  by  reason  of 
their  equality  and  our  love  they  are  familiar,  yet  still  we 
conceive  of  them  as  others  from  ourselves;  but  children  we 
think  of  affectionately  as  the  divided  pieces  of  our  own 
bodies.  But  all  these  are  one  to  God.  His  servants 
are  his  friends ;  his  friends  are  his  sons  ;  his  sons,  his 
servants.  Many  claim  kindred  of  God  and  profess 
friendship  to  him,  because  these  are  privileges  without 
difficulty,  and  not  without  honor.  All  the  trial  is  in 
service.  The  other  are  most  in  affection,  and  there¬ 
fore  secret,  and  so  may  be  dissembled.  This,  consist¬ 
ing  in  action,  must  needs  show  itself  to  the  eyes  of 
others.  ‘  Ye  are  my  friends  if  ye  do  whatsoever  I  com¬ 
mand  you.’  Friendship  with  God  is  in  service;  and 
this  service  is  in  action.  Many  wear  God’s  cloth,  that 
know  not  their  Master,  that  never  did  good  share  in  his 
service  ;  so  that  God  hath  many  retainers  that  wear  his 
livery  for  a  countenance — never  wait  on  him — whom  he 
will  never  own  for  servants,  either  by  favor  or  wages : 


96 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


few  servants,  and  therefore  few  sons.  It  is  great  favor 
in  God  and  great  honor  to  me,  that  he  will  vouchsafe  to 
make  me  the  lowest  drudge  in  his  family  :  which  place  if 
I  had  not,  and  were  a  monarch  of  men,  I  were  accursed. 
I  desire  no  more  but  to  serve ;  yet,  Lord,  thou  givest 
me  more,  to  be  thy  son.  I  hear  David  say  4  seemeth  it 
a  small  matter  to  you  to  be  the  son  in  law  to  a  king  ?* 
What  is  it  then,  O  what  is  it,  to  be  the  true  adopted 
son  of  the  King  of  glory  ?  Let  me  not  now  say  as  Da¬ 
vid  of  Saul,  but  as  Saul’s  grand-child  to  David,  4  Oh 
what  is  thy  servant  that  thou  shouldst  look  upon  such  a 
dead  dog  as  I  am  ?’ 

XXII. 

I  am  a  stranger  here  below,  my  home  is  above.  Yet 
I  can  think  too  well  of  these  foreign  vanities,  and  can¬ 
not  think  enough  of  my  home.  Surely  that  is  not  so 
far  above  my  head  as  my  thoughts ;  neither  doth  so  far 
pass  me  in  distance  as  in  comprehension ;  and  yet  I 
would  not  stand  so  much  upon  conceiving,  if  I  could  ad¬ 
mire  it  enough  :  but  my  strait  heart  is  filled  with  a  little 
wonder,  and  hath  no  room  for  the  greatest  part  of  glory 
that  remaineth.  O  God,  what  happiness  hast  thou  pre¬ 
pared  for  thy  chosen  !  What  a  purchase  was  this  wor¬ 
thy  of  the  blood  of  such  a  Saviour !  As  yet  I  do  but 
look  towards  it  afar  off,  but  it  is  easy  to  see  by  the  out¬ 
side  how  goodly  it  is  within.  Although,  as  thine  house 
on  earth,  so  that  above,  hath  more  glory  within  than  can 
be  bewrayed  by  the  outer  appearance.  The  outer  part 
of  thy  tabernacle  here  below  is  but  an  earthly  and  base 
substance,  but  within  it  is  furnished  with  a  living  spi¬ 
ritual  and  heavenly  guest ;  so  the  outer  heavens,  though 


CENTURY  III. 


97 


they  be  as  gold  to  all  other  material  creatures,  yet  they 
are  but  dross  to  thee  !  Yet  how  are  even  the  outmost 
walls  of  that  house  of  thine  beautified  with  glorious  lights, 
whereof  every  one  is  a  world  for  bigness  and  as  an  hea¬ 
ven  for  goodliness  !  O  teach  me  by  this  to  long  after 
and  wonder  at  the  inner  part,  before  thou  lettest  me  come 
in  to  behold  it. 

XXIII. 

Riches,  or  beauty,  or  whatever  worldly  good  that  hath 
been,  doth  but  grieve  us ;  that  which  is,  doth  not  satisfy 
us  ;  that  which  shall  be,  is  uncertain.  What  folly  is  it 
to  trust  to  any  of  them ! 


XXIV. 

Security  makes  worldlings  merry ;  and  therefore  are 
they  secure,  because  they  are  ignorant.  That  is  only  solid 
joy  which  ariseth  from  a  resolution,  when  the  heart  hath 
cast  up  a  full  account  of  all  causes  of  disquietness,  and 
findeth  the  causes  of  his  joy  more  forcible ;  thereupon 
settling  itself  in  a  staid  course  of  rejoicing.  For  the  oth¬ 
er,  so  soon  as  sorrow  makes  itself  to  be  seen,  especially 
in  an  unexpected  form,  is  swallowed  up  in  despair ; 
whereas  this  can  meet  with  no  occurrence  which  it  hath 
not  prevented  in  thought.  Security  and  ignorance  may 
scatter  some  refuse  morsels  of  joy  sauced  with  much  bit¬ 
terness  ;  or  may  be  like  some  boasting  housekeeper, 
which  keepeth  open  doors  for  one  day  with  much  cheer, 
and  lives  starvedly  for  all  the  year  after.  There  is  no 
good  ordinary,  but  in  a  good  conscience.  I  pity  that 
unsound  joy  in  others  and  will  seek  for  this  sound  joy  in 

7 


98 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


myself.  I  had  rather  weep  upon  a  just  cause  than  re¬ 
joice  unjustly. 

XXV. 

As  love  keeps  the  whole  law,  so  love  only  is  the 
breaker  of  it ;  being  the  ground,  as  of  all  obedience,  so 
of  all  sin.  For  whereas  sin  hath  been  commonly  account¬ 
ed  to  have  two  roots — love  and  fear-— it  is  plain  that 
fear  hath  his  original  from  love  :  for  no  man  fears  to  lose 
aught  but  what  he  loves.  Here  is  sin  and  righteousness 
brought  both  into  a  short  sum  ;  depending  both  upon  one 
poor  affection.  It  shall  be  my  only  care  therefore  to  be¬ 
stow  my  love  well,  both  for  object  and  measure.  All 
that  is  good  I  may  love,  but  in  several  degrees.  What 
is  simply  good,  absolutely ;  what  is  good  by  circumstance, 
only  with  limitation.  There  be  these  three  things  that 
I  may  love  without  exception — God,  my  neighbor,  my 
soul : — yet  so  as  each  have  their  due  place ;  my  body, 
goods,  fame,  and  so  forth,  as  servants  to  the  former. 
All  other  things,  I  will  either  not  care  for  or  hate. 

XXVI. 

One  would  not  think  that  pride  and  base-mindedness 
should  so  well  agree ;  yea,  that  they  love  so  together 
that  they  never  go  asunder.  That  envy  ever  proceeds 
from  a  base  mind,  is  granted  of  all.  Now  the  proud 
man,  as  he  fain  would  be  envied  of  others,  so  he  envieth 
all  men.  His  betters  he  envies,  because  he  is  not  so 
good  as  they.  He  envies  his  inferiors,  because  he  fears 
they  should  prove  as  good  as  he ;  his  equals,  because 
they  are  as  good  as  he.  So  under  big  looks  he  bears  a 
base  mind ;  resembling  some  cardinal’s  mule,  which,  to 


CENTURY  III. 


99 


make  up  the  train,  bears  a  costly  portmanteau  stuffed 
with  trash.  On  the  contrary,  who  is  more  proud  than 
the  basest  ?  The  Cynic  tramples  on  Plato’s  pride,  but 
with  a  worse ;  especially  if  he  be  but  a  little  exalted  : 
wherein  we  see  base  men  so  much  more  haughty,  as 
they  have  had  less  before  what  they  might  be  proud  of. 
It  is  just  with  God,  as  the  proud  man  is  base  in  himself, 
so  to  make  him  basely  esteemed  in  the  eyes  of  others  ; 
and  at  last  to  make  him  base  without  pride.  I  will  con¬ 
temn  a  proud  man,  because  he  is  base ;  and  pity  him 
because  he  is  proud. 

XXVII. 

Let  me  but  have  time  to  my  thoughts,  but  leisure  to 
think  of  heaven,  and  grace  to  my  leisure,  and  I  can  be 
happy  in  spite  of  the  world.  Nothing  but  God  that 
gives  it,  can  bereave  me  of  grace ;  and  he  will  not,  for 
his  gifts  are  without  repentance.  Nothing  but  death 
can  abridge  me  of  time,  and  when  I  begin  to  want  time 
to  think  of  heaven,  I  shall  have  eternal  leisure  to  enjoy  it. 
I  shall  be  both  ways  happy,  not  from  any  virtue  of  ap¬ 
prehension  in  me  which  have  no  peer  in  unworthiness 
— but  from  the  glory  of  that  I  apprehend ;  wherein  the 
act  and  object  are  from  the  author  of  happiness.  He 
gives  me  this  glory.  Let  me  give  him  the  glory  of  his 
gift.  His  glory  is  my  happiness  ;  let  my  glory  be  his. 

XXVIII. 

God  bestows  favors  upon  some  in  anger,  as  he  strikes 
other  some  in  love. — The  Israelites  had  better  have 
wanted  their  quails,  than  to  have  eaten  them  with  such 
sauce. — And  sometimes,  at  our  own  instance,  removing 


100 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


a  lesser  punishment  leaves  a  greater,  though  insensible, 
in  the  room  of  it.  I  will  not  so  much  strive  against  af¬ 
fliction  as  displeasure.  Let  me  rather  be  afflicted  in 
love  than  prosper  without  it. 

XXIX. 

It  is  strange  that  we  men,  having  so  continual  use  of 
God  and  being  so  perpetually  beholding  to  him,  should 
be  so  strange  to  him,  and  so  little  acquainted  with  him ; 
since  we  account  it  a  perverse  nature  in  any  man,  that, 
being  provoked  with  many  kind  offices,  refuses  the  fa¬ 
miliarity  of  a  worthy  friend,  which  doth  still  seek  it  and 
hath  deserved  it.  So  hence  it  comes  that  we  are  so 
loth  to  think  of  our  dissolution  and  going  to  God ;  for 
naturally  where  we  are  not  acquainted,  we  list  not  to 
hazard  our  welcome  ;  choosing  rather  to  spend  our  mo¬ 
ney,  at  a  simple  inn,  than  to  turn  in  for  a  free  lodging 
to  an  unknown  host,  whom  we  have  only  heard  of,  never 
had  friendship  with.  Whereas  to  an  entire  friend,  whose 
nature  and  welcome  wre  know,  and  whom  we  have  else¬ 
where  familiarly  conversed  withal,  we  go  as  boldly  and 
willingly  as  to  our  home ;  knowing  that  no  hour  can  be 
unseasonable  to  such  a  one  : — whiles  on  the  other  side, 
we  scrape  acquaintance  with  the  world,  that  never  did 
us  good,  even  after  many  repulses.  I  will  not  live  with 
God  and  in  God  without  his  acquaintance.  Knowing  it 
my  happiness  to  have  such  a  friend,  I  will  not  let  one 
day  pass  without  some  act  of  renewing  my  familiarity 
with  him  ;  not  giving  over  till  I  have  given  him  some 
testimony  of  my  love  to  him,  and  joy  in  him,  and  till  he 
hath  left  behind  him  some  pledge  of  his  continued  favor 
to  me. 


CENTURY  III. 


101 


XXX. 

Men,  for  the  most  part,  would  neither  die  nor  be  old. 
When  we  see  an  aged  man  that  hath  over-lived  all  the 
teeth  of  his  gums,  the  hair  of  his  head,  the  sight  of  his 
eyes,  the  taste  of  his  palate,  we  profess  we  would  not 
live  till  such  a  cumbersome  age  wherein  we  prove  bur¬ 
dens  to  our  dearest  friends  and  ourselves.  Yet,  if  it  be 
put  to  our  choice  what  year  we  would  die,  we  ever  shift 
it  off  till  the  next,  and  want  not  excuses  for  this  proro¬ 
gation  rather  than  fail ; — alleging  we  would  live  to 
amend,  when  yet  we  do  but  add  more  to  the  heap  of  our 
sins  by  continuance.  Nature  hath  nothing  to  plead  for 
this  folly,  but  that  life  is  sweet.  Wherein  we  give  oc¬ 
casion  of  renewing  that  ancient  check,  or  one  not  unlike 
to  it,  whereby  that  primitive  vision  taxed  the  timorous¬ 
ness  of  the  shrinking  confessors — 1  Ye  would  neither 
live  to  be  old  nor  die  ere  your  age.  What  should  I  do 
with  you  ?’  The  Christian  must  not  think  it  enough  to 
endure  the  thought  of  death  with  patience,  when  it  is 
obtruded  upon  him  by  necessity ;  but  must  voluntarily 
call  it  into  his  mind,  with  joy  ;  not  only  abiding  it  should 
come,  but  wishing  that  it  might  come.  I  will  not  leave 
till  I  can  resolve,  if  I  might  die  to-day  not  to  live  till  to¬ 
morrow. 

XXXI. 

As  a  true  friend  is  the  sweetest  contentment  in  the 
world,  so  in  his  qualities  he  well  resembleth  honey, — 
the  sweetest  of  all  liquors.  Nothing  is  more  sweet  to 
the  taste,  nothing  more  sharp  and  cleansing  when  it  meets 
with  an  exulcerate  sore.  For  myself  I  know  I  must  have 


102 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


faults,  and  therefore  I  care  not  for  that  friend  that  I 
shall  never  smart  by.  For  my  friends,  I  know  they 
cannot  be  faultless,  and  therefore  as  they  shall  find  me 
sweet  in  their  praises  and  encouragements ;  so  sharp  also 
in  their  censure.  Either  let  them  abide  me  no  friend 
to  their  faults  or  no  friend  to  themselves. 

XXXII. 

In  all  other  things,  we  are  led  by  profit ;  but  in  the 
main  matter  of  all,  we  show  ourselves  utterly  unthrifty ; 
and  whiles  we  are  wise  in  making  good  markets  in  these 
base  commodities,  we  show  ourselves  foolish  in  the  great 
match  of  our  souls.  God  and  the  world  come  both  to 
one  shop  and  make  proffers  for  our  souls.  The  world 
like  a  frank  chapman  says  ‘  all  these  will  I  give  thee,’ 
— showing  us  his  bags  and  promotions  and  thrusting 
them  into  our  hands.  God  offers  a  crown  of  glory, 
which  yet  he  tells  us  we  must  give  him  day  to  perform, 
and  have  nothing  in  present,  but  our  hope  and  some 
small  earnest  of  the  bargain.  Though  we  know  there 
is  no  comparison  betwixt  these  two  in  value,  finding 
these  earthly  things  vain  and  unable  to  give  any  con¬ 
tentment,  and  those  other  of  invaluable  worth  and  bene¬ 
fit,  yet  we  had  rather  take  these  in  hand  than  trust  God 
on  his  word  for  the  future  ;  while  yet  in  the  same  kind, 
we  choose  rather  to  take  some  rich  lordships  in  rever¬ 
sion,  after  the  long  expectation  of  three  lives  expired, 
than  a  present  sum  much  under  foot.  As,  contrarily, 
when  God  and  the  world  are  sellers,  and  we  come  to 
the  mart,  the  world  offers  fine  painted  wares  but  will 
not  part  with  them  under  the  price  of  our  torment. 
God  proclaims,  Come  ye  that  want,  buy  for  nought. 


CENTURY  III. 


103 


Now  we  thrifty  men  that  try  all  shops  for  the  cheapest 
penny  worth,  refuse  God  proffering  his  precious  com¬ 
modities  for  nothing,  and  pay  an  hard  price  for  that 
which  is  worse  than  nothing, — painful.  Surely  we  are 
wise  for  anything  but  our  souls,  and  not  so  wise  for  the 
body  as  foolish  for  them.  O  Lord,  thy  payment  is  sure 
and  who  knows  how  present !  Take  the  soul  that  thou 
hast  both  made  and  bought,  and  let  me  rather  give  my 
life  for  thy  favor,  than  take  the  offers  of  the  world  for 
nothing. 


XXXIII. 

There  was  never  age  that  more  bragged  of  knowledge, 
and  yet  never  any  that  had  less  soundness.  He  that 
knows  not  God  knoweth  nothing ;  and  he  that  loves  not 
God  knows  him  not;  for  he  is  so  sweet  and  infinitely 
full  of  delight,  that  whoever  knows  him  cannot  choose 
but  affect  him.  The  little  love  of  God,  then,  argues  the 
great  ignorance  even  of  those  that  profess  knowledge. 
I  will  not  suffer  my  affections  to  run  before  my  know¬ 
ledge,  for  then  I  shall  love  fashionably, — only  because  I 
hear  God  is  worthy  of  love  and  so  be  subject  to  re¬ 
lapses  ;  but  I  will  ever  lay  knowledge  as  the  ground  of 
my  love.  So  as  I  grow  in  divine  knowledge,  I  shall 
still  profit  in  an  heavenly  zeal. 

XXXIV. 

Those  that  travel  in  long  pilgrimages  to  the  Holy 
Land,  what  a  number  of  weary  paces  they  measure ; 
what  a  number  of  hard  lodgings  and  known  dangers  they 
pass ;  and,  at  last,  when  they  are  come  within  view  of  their 
journey’s  end,  what  a  large  tribute  pay  they,  at  the  Pi- 


104 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


san  castle,  to  the  Turks !  And  when  they  are  come 
thither,  what  see  they,  but  the  bare  sepulchre  wherein 
their  Saviour  lay,  and  the  earth  that  he  trod  upon, — to 
the  increase  of  a  carnal  devotion  ?  What  labor  should  I 
willingly  undertake  in  my  journey  to  the  true  land  of 
promise,  the  celestial  Jerusalem,  where  I  shall  see  and 
enjoy  my  Saviour  himself !  What  tribute  of  pain  or 
death  should  I  refuse  to  pay  for  my  entrance,  not  into 
his  sepulchre,  but  his  palace  of  glory  ;  and  that  not  to 
look  upon  but  to  possess  it ! 

XXXV. 

Those  that  are  all  in  exhortation,  no  whit  in  doctrine, 
are  like  to  them  that  snuff  the  candle,  but  pour  not  in 
oil.  Again,  those  that  are  all  in  doctrine,  nothing  in 
exhortation,  drown  the  wick  in  oil,  but  light  it  not 
making  it  fit  for  use,  if  it  had  fire  put  to  it,  but  as  it  is, 
rather  capable  of  good,  than  profitable  in  present.  Doc¬ 
trine  without  exhortation,  makes  men  all  brain,  no  heart. 
Exhortation  without  doctrine,  makes  the  heart  full, 
leaves  the  brain  empty.  Both  together  make  a  man  : 
one  makes  a  man  wise  ;  the  other,  good.  One  serves 
that  we  may  know  our  duty ;  the  other,  that  we  may 
perform  it.  I  will  labor  in  both ;  but  I  know  not  in 
whether,  more.  Men  cannot  practice,  unless  they  know<; 
and  they  know  in  vain,  if  they  practice  not. 

XXXVI. 

There  be  two  things  in  every  good  work, — honor  and 
profit.  The  latter,  God  bestows  upon  us ;  the  former, 
he  keeps  to  himself.  The  profit  of  our  works  redound- 
eth  not  to  God.  4 My  well-doing  extendeth  not  to  thee.’ 


CENTURY  III. 


105 


The  honor  of  our  work  may  not  be  allowed  us.  1  My 
glory  I  will  not  give  to  another.’  I  will  not  abridge 
God  of  his  part,  that  he  may  not  bereave  me  of  mine. 

XXXVII. 

The  proud  man  hath  no  God ;  the  envious  man  hath 
no  neighbor  ;  the  angry  man  hath  not  himself.  What  can 
that  man  have  that  wants  himself?  What  is  a  man 
better,  if  he  have  himself  and  want  all  others  ?  What 
is  he  the  nearer,  if  he  have  himself  and  others,  and  yet 
want  God?  What  good  is  it  then  to  be  a  man,  if  he  be 
either  wrathful,  proud,  or  envious  ? 

XXXVIII. 

Man,  that  was  once  the  sovereign  lord  of  all  crea¬ 
tures,  whom  they  serviceably  attended  at  all  times,  is 
now  sent  to  the  very  basest  of  all  creatures  to  learn  good 
qualities.  ‘  Go  to  the  pismire  ’  and  so  forth,  and  see, 
the  most  contemptible  creature  is  preferred  before 
him  !  1  The  ass  knoweth  his  owner wherein  we,  like 

the  miserable  heir  of  some  great  peer,  whose  house  is 
decayed  through  the  treason  of  our  progenitors,  hear  and 
see  what  honors  and  lordships  we  should  have  had,  but 
now  find  ourselves  below  many  of  the  vulgar.  We  have 
not  so  much  cause  of  exaltation,  that  we  are  men  and 
not  beasts,  as  we  have  of  humiliation,  in  thinking  how 
much  we  were  once  better  than  we  are,  and  that  now  in 
many  duties  we  are  men  inferior  to  beasts  :  so  as  those 
whom  we  contemn,  if  they  had  our  reason  might  more 
justly  contemn  us  ;  and  as  they  are,  may  teach  us  by 
their  examples,  and  do  condemn  us  by  their  practice. 


106 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


XXXIX. 

The  idle  man  is  the  devil’s  cushion,  on  which  he 
taketh  his  free  ease  ;  who,  as  he  is  uncapable  of  any  good, 
so  he  is  fitly  disposed  for  all  evil  motions.  The  stand¬ 
ing  water  soon  stinketh  ;  whereas  the  current  ever  keeps 
clear  and  cleanly,  conveying  down  all  noisome  matter 
that  might  infect  it,  by  the  force  of  his  stream.  If  I  do 
but  little  good  to  others  by  my  endeavors,  yet  this  is 
great  good  to  me,  that  by  my  labor  I  keep  myself  from 
hurt. 


XL. 

There  can  be  no  nearer  conjunction  in  nature,  than  is 
betwixt  the  body  and  the  soul ;  yet  these  two  are  of  so 
contrary  disposition,  that — as  it  falls  out  in  an  ill-match¬ 
ed  man  and  wife,  those  servants  which  the  one  likes 
best,  are  most  dispraised  of  the  other — so  here,  one  still 
takes  part  against  the  other  in  their  choice  :  what  bene¬ 
fits  the  one,  is  the  hurt  of  the  other.  The  glutting  of 
the  body  pines  the  soul ;  and  the  soul  thrives  best  when 
the  body  is  pinched.  Who  can  wonder  that  there  is 
such  faction  amongst  others,  that  sees  so  much  in  his 
very  self?  True  wisdom  is  to  take,  not  with  the  strong¬ 
er,  as  the  fashion  of  the  world  is,  but  with  the  better ; 
following  herein,  not  usurped  power,  but  justice.  It  is 
not  hard  to  discern  whose  the  right  is — whether  the  ser¬ 
vant  should  rule,  or  the  mistress.  I  will  labor  to  make 
and  keep  the  peace  by  giving  each  part  his  own,  indif¬ 
ferently  ;  but  if  more  be  affected  with  an  ambitious  con¬ 
tention,  I  will  rather  beat  Hagar  out  of  doors  than  she 
shall  over-rule  her  mistress. 


CENTURY  III. 


107 


XLI. 

I  see  iron  first  heated  red  hot  in  the  fire,  and  after 
beaten  and  hardened  with  cold  water.  Thus  will  I 
deal  with  an  offending  friend ;  first  heat  him  with  de¬ 
served  praise  of  his  virtue,  and  then  beat  upon  him  with 
reprehension.  So  good  nurses,  when  their  children  are 
fallen,  first  take  them  up  and  speak  them  fair — chide 
them  afterwards.  Gentle  speech  is  a  good  preparative 
for  rigor.  He  shall  see  that  I  love  him,  by  my  appro¬ 
bation  ;  and  that  I  love  not  his  faults,  by  my  reproof. 
If  he  love  himself,  he  will  love  those  that  mislike  his 
vices ;  and  if  he  love  not  himself,  it  matters  not  whether 
he  love  me. 

XLn. 

The  liker  we  are  to  God,  which  is  the  best  and  only 
good,  the  better  and  happier  we  must  needs  be.  All 
sins  make  us  unlike  him,  as  being  contrary  to  his  per¬ 
fect  holiness  ;  but  some  show  more  direct  contrariety. — 
Such  is  envy :  for  whereas  God  bringeth  good  out  of 
evil,  the  envious  man  fetcheth  evil  out  of  good.  Where¬ 
in  also  his  sin  proves  a  kind  of  punishment.  For  where¬ 
as,  to  good  men,  even  evil  things  work  together  to  their 
good ;  contrarily,  to  the  envious,  good  things  work  to¬ 
gether  to  their  evil.  The  evil  in  any  man— though  nev¬ 
er  so  prosperous — I  will  not  envy,  but  pity.  The  good 
graces,  I  will  not  repine  at,  but  holily  emulate ;  rejoic¬ 
ing  that  they  are  so  good,  but  grieving  that  I  am  no 
better. 


108 


MEDITATIONS  AND  TOWS. 


XLIII. 

The  covetous  man  is  like  a  spider ;  as  in  this,  that  he 
doth  nothing  but  lay  his  nets  to  catch  every  fly,  gaping 
only  for  a  booty  of  gain  ;  so,  yet  more,  in  that  whiles  he 
makes  nets  for  these  flies,  he  consumeth  his  own  bow¬ 
els  ;  so  that  which  is  his  life,  is  his  death.  If  there  be 
any  creature  miserable,  it  is  he  ;  and  yet  he  is  least  to 
be  pitied,  because  he  makes  himself  miserable.  Such 
as  he  is,  I  will  account  him ;  and  will  therefore  sweep 
down  his  webs  and  hate  his  poison. 

XLIV. 

In  heaven,  there  is  all  life  and  no  dying ;  in  hell,  is 
all  death  and  no  life.  In  earth  there  is  both  living  and 
dying ;  which  as  it  is  betwixt  both,  so  it  prepares  for 
both.  So  that  he  which  here  below  dies  to  sin,  doth 
after  live  in  heaven  ;  and,  contrarily,  he  that  lives  in  sin 
upon  earth,  dies  in  hell  afterwards.  What  if  I  have  no 
part  of  joy  here  below,  but  still  succession  of  afflictions  ! 
The  wicked  have  no  part  in  heaven,  and  yet  they  enjoy 
the  earth  with  pleasure.  I  would  not  change  portions 
with  them.  I  rejoice  that,  seeing  I  cannot  have  both, 
yet  I  have  the  better.  O  Lord,  let  me  pass  both  my 
deaths  here  upon  earth.  I  care  not  how  I  live  or  die, 
so  I  may  have  nothing  but  life  to  look  for  in  another 
world. 


XLV. 

The  conceit  of  propriety  hardens  a  man  against 
many  inconveniences,  and  addeth  much  to  our  pleasure. 
The  mother  abides  many  unquiet  nights,  many  painful 


CENT  UR  Y  III. 


109 


throes,  and  unpleasant  savors  of  her  child,  upon  this 
thought — it  is  my  own.  The  indulgent  father  magni¬ 
fies  that,  in  his  own  son,  which  he  would  scarce  like  in 
a  stranger.  The  want  of  this  to  God-ward  makes  us 
so  subject  to  discontentment,  and  cooleth  our  delight  in 
him,  because  we  think  of  him  aloof,  as  one  in  whom  we 
are  not  interessed.  If  we  could  think — It  is  my  God 
that  cheereth  me  with  his  presence  and  blessings,  while 
I  prosper  ;  that  afllicteth  me  in  love,  when  I  am  deject¬ 
ed  ;  my  Saviour  is  at  God’s  right  hand  ;  my  angels 
stand  in  his  presence  ; — it  could  not  be  but  God’s  favor 
would  be  sweeter,  his  chastisements  more  easy,  his  bene¬ 
fits  more  effectual.  I  am  not  mine  own  while  God  is 
not  mine  ;  and  while  he  is  mine,  since  I  do  possess  him, 
I  will  enjoy  him. 

XL  VI. 

Nature  is  of  her  own  inclination  froward,  importu¬ 
nately  longing  after  that  which  is  denied  her,  and  scorn¬ 
ful  of  what  she  may  have.  If  it  were  appointed  that  we 
should  live  always  upon  earth,  how  extremely  would  we 
exclaim  of  weariness  and  wish  rather  that  we  were  not ! 
Now  it  is  appointed’we  shall  live  here  but  a  while  and 
then  give  room  to  our  successors,  each  one  affects  a 
kind  of  eternity  upon  earth.  I  will  labor  to  tame  this 
peevish  and  sullen  humor  of  nature  ;  and  will  like  that 
best  that  must  be. 


XLVII. 

0 

All  true  earthly  pleasure  forsook  man  when  he  for¬ 
sook  his  Creator.  What  honest  and  holy  delight  he 
took  before,  in  the  dutiful  services  of  the  obsequious 


110 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


creatures ;  in  the  contemplation  of  that  admirable  va¬ 
riety  and  strangeness  of  their  properties ;  in  seeing 
their  sweet  accordance  with  each  other,  and  all  with 
himself!  Now,  most  of  our  pleasure  is  to  set  one  crea¬ 
ture  together  by  the  ears  with  another ;  sporting  our¬ 
selves  only  with  that  deformity  which  was  bred  through 
our  own  fault ;  yea,  there  have  been  that  have  delight¬ 
ed  to  see  one  man  spill  another’s  blood  upon  the  sand, 
and  have  shouted  for  joy  at  the  sight  of  that  slaughter 
which  hath  fallen  out  upon  no  other  quarrel  but  the 
pleasure  of  the  beholders.  I  doubt  not  but  as  we  solace 
ourselves  in  the  discord  of  the  inferior  creatures,  so  the 
evil  spirits  sport  themselves  in  our  dissensions.  There 
are  better  qualities  of  the  creature,  which  we  pass  over 
without  pleasure.  In  recreations,  I  will  choose  those 
which  are  of  best  example  and  best  use ;  seeking  those 
by  which  I  may  not  only  be  the  merrier,  but  the  better. 

XLVIII. 

There  is  no  want  for  which  a  man  may  not  find  a 
remedy  in  himself.  Do  1  want  riches  ?  He  that  de¬ 
sires  but  little,  cannot  want  much.  Do  I  want  friends  ? 
If  I  love  God  enough,  and  myself  but  enough,  it  mat¬ 
ters  not.  Do  I  want  health  ?  If  I  want  it  but  little  and 
recover,  I  shall  esteem  it  the  more  because  I  wanted. 
If  I  be  long  sick  and  unrecoverably,  I  shall  be  the  fit¬ 
ter  and  willinger  to  die ;  and  my  pain  is  so  much  less 
sharp  by  how  much,  more  it  lingereth.  Do  I  want 
maintenance  ?  A  little  and  coarse  will  content  nature. 
Let  my  mind  be  no  more  ambitious  than  my  back  and 
and  belly,  I  can  hardly  complain  of  too  little.  Do  I 
want  sleep  ?  I  am  going  whither  there  is  no  use  of 


C  ENTURY  III. 


Ill 


sleep ;  where  all  rest  and  sleep  not.  Do  I  want  chil¬ 
dren  ?  Many  that  have  them  wish  they  wanted :  it  is 
better  to  be  childless  than  crossed  with  their  miscarriage. 
Do  I  want  learning  ?  He  hath  none  that  saith  he  hath 
enough.  The  next  way  to  get  more,  is  to  find  thou 
wantest.  There  is  remedy  for  all  wants  in  ourselves, 
saving  only  for  want  of  grace  ;  and  that  a  man  cannot 
so  much  as  see  and  complain  that  he  wants,  but  from 
above. 


XLIX. 

Every  virtuous  action — like  the  sun  eclipsed — hath  a 
double  shadow,  according  to  the  divers  aspects  of  the  be¬ 
holders  ;  one  of  glory,  the  other  of  envy.  Glory  follows 
upon  good  deserts ;  envy,  upon  glory.  He  that  is  en¬ 
vied  may  think  himself  well ;  for  he  that  envies  him, 
thinks  him  more  than  well.  I  know  no  vice  in  another, 
whereof  a  man  may  make  so  good  and  comfortable  use 
to  himself.  There  would  be  no  shadow  if  there  were 
no  light. 

L. 

In  meddling  with  the  faults  of  friends,  I  have  observed 
many  wrongful  courses  ; — what  for  fear,  or  self-love,  or 
indiscretion.  Some,  I  have  seen  like  unmerciful  and 
covetous  chirurgeons,  keep  the  wound  raw, — which  they 
might  have  seasonably  remedied — for  their  own  gain. 
Others,  that  have  laid  healing  plasters  to  skin  it  aloft, 
when  there  hath  been  more  need  of  corrosives  to  eat  out 
the  dead  flesh  within.  Others,  that  have  galled  and 
drawn,  when  there  hath  been  nothing  but  solid  flesh, 
that  hath  wanted  only  filling  up.  Others,  that  have 


112 


MEDITATIONS  AND  YOWS. 


healed  the  sore,  but  left  an  unsightly  scar  of  dis¬ 
credit  behind  them.  He  that  would  do  good  this  way 
must  have  fidelity,  courage,  discretion,  patience  :  fidelity, 
not  to  bear  with  ;  courage,  to  reprove  them  ;  discretion, 
to  reprove  them  well ;  patience,  to  abide  the  leisure  of 
amendment — making  much  of  good  beginnings,  and  put¬ 
ting  up  many  repulses  ;  bearing  with  many  weakness¬ 
es  ;  still  hoping,  still  soliciting ;  as  knowing  that  those 
who  have  been  long  used  to  fetters,  cannot  but  halt 
awhile  when  they  are  taken  off. 

LI. 

God  hath  made  all  the  world,  and  yet  what  a  little 
part  of  it  is  his  !  Divide  the  world  into  four  parts  : — 
but  one  and  the  least  containeth  all  that  is  worthy  the 
name  of  Christendom ;  the  rest,  overwhelmed  with  Tur- 
cism  and  paganism :  and  of  this  least  part,  the  greater 
half,  yet  holding  aright  concerning  God  and  their  Sa¬ 
viour  in  some  common  principles,  overthrow  the  truth 
in  their  conclusions  ;  and  so  leave  the  lesser  part  of  the 
least  for  God.  Yet  lower; — of  those  that  hold  aright 
eoncerning  Christ,  how  few  are  there  that  do  otherwise 
than  fashionably  profess  him  ?  And  of  those  that  do 
seriously  profess  him,  how  few  are  there  that  in  their 
lives  deny  him  not,  living  unworthy  of  so  glorious  a 
calling.  Wherein  I  do  not  pity  God  who  will  have  glo¬ 
ry  even  of  those  that  are  not  his.  I  pity  miserable  men, 
that  do  reject  their  Creator  and  Redeemer  and  them¬ 
selves  in  him  :  and  I  envy  Satan,  that  he  ruleth  so  large. 
Since  God  hath  so  few,  I  will  be  thankful  that  he  hath 
vouchsafed  me  one  of  his ;  and  be  the  more  zealous  of 
glorifying  him,  because  we  have  but  a  few  fellows. 


CENTURY  III. 


113 


LII. 

As  those  that  have  tasted  of  some  delicate  dish  find 
other  plain  dishes  but  unpleasant,  so  it  fareth  with  those 
which  have  once  tasted  of  heavenly  things — they  cannot 
but  contemn  the  best  worldly  pleasures.  As  therefore 
some  dainty  guest,  knowing  there  is  so  pleasant  fare  to 
come,  I  will  reserve  my  appetite  for  it,  and  not  suffer 
myself  cloyed  with  the  coarse  diet  of  the  world. 

LUI. 

I  find  many  places  where  God  hath  used  the  hand  of 
good  angels  for  the  punishment  of  the  wicked  ;  but  never 
could  yet  find  one  wherein  he  employed  an  evil  angel  in 
any  direct  good  to  his  children.  Indirect  I  find  many,  if 
not  all,  through  the  power  of  him  that  brings  light  out  of 
darkness  and  turns  their  evil  to  our  good.  In  this  choice, 
God  would  and  must  be  imitated.  From  an  evil  spirit  I 
dare  not  receive  aught,  if  never  so  good.  I  will  receive 
as  little  as  I  may  from  a  wicked  man.  If  he  were  as 
perfectly  evil  as  the  other,  I  durst  receive  nothing.  I 
had  rather  hunger,  than  wilfully  dip  my  hand  in  a  wick¬ 
ed  man’s  dish. 

LIV. 

We  are  ready  to  condemn  others  for  that  which  is  as 
eminently  faulty  in  ourselves.  If  one  blind  man  rush 
upon  another  in  the  way,  either  complains  of  other’s 
blindness;  neither,  of  his  own.  I  have  heard  those 
which  have  had  most  corrupt  lungs  complain  of  the 
unsavory  breath  of  others.  The  reason  is,  because  the 
mind  casteth  altogether  outward,  and  reflecteth  not  into 

8 


114  MEDITATIONS  AND  TOWS. 

itself.  Yet  it  is  more  shameful  to  be  either  ignorant  of, 
or  favorable  to,  our  own  imperfections.  I  will  censure 
others’  vices  fearfully ;  my  own,  confidently,  because  I 
know  them ;  and  those  I  know  not,  I  will  suspect. 

LV. 

He  is  a  very  humble  man  that  thinks  not  himself  bet¬ 
ter  than  some  others  ;  and  he  is  very  mean,  whom  some 
others  do  not  account  better  than  themselves — so  that 
vessel  that  seemed  very  small  upon  the  main,  seems  a  tall 
ship  upon  the  Thames.  As  there  are  many  better  for  es¬ 
tate  than  myself,  so  there  are  some  worse  ;  and  if  I  were 
yet  worse,  yet  wrould  there  be  some  lower  ;  and  if  I  were 
so  low  that  I  accounted  myself  the  worst  of  all,  yet  some 
would  account  themselves  in  worse  case.  A  man’s  opin¬ 
ion  is  in  others  ;  his  being  is  in  himself.  Let  me  know 
myself,  let  others  guess  at  me.  Let  others  either  envy 
or  pity  me  ;  I  care  not,  so  long  as  I  enjoy  myself. 

LVI. 

He  can  never  wonder  enough  at  God’s  workmanship? 
that  knows  not  the  frame  of  the  world ;  for  he  can  never 
else  conceive  of  the  hugeness  and  strange  proportion  of 
the  creature  :  and  he  that  knows  this,  can  never  wonder 
more  at  anything  else.  I  will  learn  to  know,  that  I  may 
admire  ;  and  by  that  little  I  know,  I  will  more  wonder 
at  that  I  know  not. 

LVII. 

There  is  nothing  below  but  toiling,  grieving,  wishing, 
hoping,  fearing;  and  weariness  in  all  these.  What 
fools  are  we,  to  be  besotted  with  the  love  of  our  own 


CENTURY  III. 


115 


trouble  and  to  hate  our  liberty  and  rest.  The  love  of 
misery,  is  much  worse  than  misery  itself.  We  must 
first  pray  that  God  would  make  us  wise,  before  we  can 
wish  he  would  make  us  happy. 

LVIII. 

If  a  man  refer  all  things  to  himself,  nothing  seems 
enough.  If  all  things  to  God,  any  measure  will  content 
him  of  earthly  things :  but  in  grace  he  is  insatiable. 
Worldlings  serve  themselves  altogether  in  God  ;  making 
religion  but  to  serve  their  turns,  as  a  color  of  their  am¬ 
bition  and  covetousness.  The  Christian  seeks  God  only 
in  seeking  himself ;  using  all  other  things  but  as  subor¬ 
dinate^  to  him  ;  not  caring  whether  himself  win  or  lose, 
so  that  God  may  win  glory  in  both.  I  will  not  suffer 
mine  eyes  and  mind  to  be  bounded  with  these  visible 
things,  but  still  look  through  these  matters  at  God 
which  is  the  utmost  scope  of  them ;  accounting  them 
only  as  a  thoroughfare  to  pass  by,  not  as  an  habitation 
to  rest  in. 

LIX. 

lie  is  wealthy  enough,  that  wanteth  not.  He  is  great 
enough,  that  is  his  own  master.  He  is  happy  enough, 
that  lives  to  die  well.  Other  things  I  will  not  care  for ; 
nor  too  much  for  these,  save  only  for  the  last,  which 
alone  can  admit  of  no  immoderation. 


LX. 

A  plan  of  extraordinary  parts  makes  himself,  by 
strange  and  singular  behaviour,  more  admired  ;  which  if 
a  man  of  but  common  faculty  do  imitate,  he  makes  him¬ 
self  ridiculous  ;  for  that  which  is  construed  as  natural  to 


116 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


the  one,  is  descried  to  be  affected  in  the  other : — and 
there  is  nothing  forced  by  affectation  can  be  comely.  I 
will  ever  strive  to  go  in  the  common  road  ;  so,  while  I 
am  not  notable,  I  shall  not  be  notorious. 

LXI. 

Gold  is  the  best  metal, — and  for  the  purity,  not  sub¬ 
ject  to  rust  as  all  others ;  and  yet  the  best  gold  hath 
some  dross.  I  esteem  not  that  man  that  hath  no  faults. 
I  like  him  well  that  hath  but  a  few,  and  those  not  great. 

LXII. 

Many  a  man  mars  a  good  estate,  for  want  of  skill  to 
proportion  his  carriage  answerably  to  his  ability.  A 
little  sail  to  a  large  vessel  rids  no  way,  though  the  wind 
be  fair.  A  large  sail  to  a  little  bark  drowns  it.  A  top¬ 
sail  to  a  ship  of  mean  burden  in  a  rough  weather  is  dan¬ 
gerous.  A  low  sail  in  an  easy  gale  yields  little  advan¬ 
tage.  This  disproportion  causeth  some  to  live  misera¬ 
bly  in  a  good  estate,  and  some  to  make  a  good  estate 
miserable.  I  will  first  know  what  I  may  do  for  safety  ; 
and  then  I  will  try  what  I  can  do  for  speed. 

LXIII. 

The  rich  man  hath  many  friends  ;  although  in  truth 
riches  have  them,  and  not  the  man.  As  the  ass  that 
carried  the  Egyptian  goddess  had  many  bowed  knees, 
yet  not  to  the  beast,  but  to  the  burden ;  for  separate  the 
riches  from  the  person,  and  thou  shalt  see  friendship 
leave  the  man  and  follow  that  which  was  ever  her  ob¬ 
ject.  While  he  may  command,  and  can  either  give  or 
control,  he  hath  attendance  and  proffer  of  love  at  all 


CENTURY  III. 


117 


hands  :  but  which  of  these  dares  acknowledge  him,  when 
he  is  going  to  prison  for  debt  ?  Then  these  wasps  that 
made  such  music  about  this  gallipot,  show  plainly  that 
they  came  only  for  the  honey  that  was  in  it.  This  is 
the  misery  of  the  wealthy, — that  they  cannot  know  their 
friends  ;  whereas  those  that  love  the  poor  man,  love  him 
for  himself.  He  that  would  choose  a  true  friend,  must 
search  out  one  that  is  neither  covetous  nor  ambitious ; 
for  such  a  one  loves  but  himself  in  thee  ;  and  if  it  be  rare 
to  find  any  not  infected  with  these  qualities,  the  best  is, 
to  entertain  all  and  trust  few. 

LXIV. 

That  which  the  French  proverb  hath  of  sicknesses,  is 
true  of  all  evils, — that  they  come  on  horseback  and  go 
away  on  foot.  We  have  oft  seen  a  sudden  fall,  or  one 
meal’s  surfeit,  hath  stuck  by  many  to  their  graves  ; 
whereas  pleasures  come  like  oxen,  slow  and  heavily, 
and  go  away  like  post-horses  upon  the  spur.  Sorrows, 
because  they  are  lingering  guests,  I  will  entertain  but 
moderately ;  knowing  that  the  more  they  are  made  of, 
the  longer  they  will  continue  :  and  for  pleasures,  because 
they  stay  not  and  do  but  call  to  drink  at  my  door,  I  will 
use  them  as  passengers,  with  slight  respect.  He  is  his 
own  best  friend,  that  makes  least  of  both  of  them. 

LXV. 

It  is  indeed  more  commendable  to  give  good  exam¬ 
ple,  than  to  take  it ;  yet  imitation — however  in  civil 
matters  it  be  condemned  of  servility — in  Christian  prac¬ 
tice,  hath  his  due  praise  ;  and  though  it  be  more  natural 
for  beginners  at  their  first  imitation  that  cannot  swim 


118 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


without  bladders,  yet  the  best  proficient  shall  see  ever 
some  higher  steps  of  those  that  have  gone  to  heaven  be¬ 
fore  him,  worthy  of  his  tracing.  Wherein  much  caution 
must  be  had  that  we  follow  good  men,  and  in  good  : 
good  men,  for  if  we  propound  imperfect  patterns  to  our¬ 
selves,  we  shall  be  constrained  first  to  unlearn  those  ill 
habits  we  have  got  by  their  imitation,  before  we  can  be 
capable  of  good ;  so,  besides  the  loss  of  labor,  we  are 
further  off  from  our  end :  in  good,  for  that  a  man  should 
be  so  wedded  to  any  man’s  person,  that  he  can  make  no 
separation  from  his  infirmities,  is  both  absurdly  servile 
and  unchristian.  He,  therefore,  that  would  follow  well, 
must  know  to  distinguish  well  betwixt  good  men  and 
evil ;  betwixt  good  men  and  better  ;  betwixt  good  quali¬ 
ties  and  infirmities.  Why  hath  God  given  me  educa¬ 
tion  not  in  a  desert  alone,  but  in  the  company  of  good 
and  virtuous  men, — but  that  by  the  sight  of  their  good 
carriage,  I  should  better  my  own  ?  Why  should  we 
have  interest  in  the  vices  of  men,  and  not  in  their  vir¬ 
tues  ?  And  although  precepts  be  surer,  yet  a  good 
man’s  action  is  according  to  precept ;  yea,  is  a  precept 
itself.  The  psalmist  compares  the  law  of  God  to  a  lan¬ 
tern  : — good  example  bears  it.  It  is  safe  following  him 
that  carries  the  light.  If  he  walk  without  the  light,  he 
shall  walk  without  me. 

LXVI. 

As  there  is  one  common  end  to  all  good  men — salva¬ 
tion ;  and  one  author  of  it — Christ;  so  there  is  but  one 
way  to  it — doing  well  and  suffering  evil.  Doing  well, 
methinks,  is  like  the  zodiac  in  the  heaven,  the  highway 
of  the  sun,  thorough  which  it  daily  passeth :  suffering 


CENTURY  III. 


119 


evil,  is  like  the  ecliptic  line  that  goes  thorough  the  mid- 
dest  of  it.  The  rule  of  doing;  well — the  law  of  God — is 
uniform  and  eternal ;  and  the  copies  of  suffering  evil,  in 
all  times,  agree  with  the  original.  No  man  can  either 
do  well,  or  suffer  ill,  without  an  example.  Are  we  sawn 
in  pieces  ?  So  was  Isaiah.  Are  we  beheaded  ?  So 
John  Baptist.  Crucified  ?  So  Peter.  Thrown  to  wild 
beasts  ?  So  Daniel.  Into  the  furnace  ?  So  the  three 
children.  Stoned?  So  Stephen.  Banished?  So  the 
beloved  disciple.  Burnt  ?  So  millions  of  martyrs.  De¬ 
famed  and  slandered  ?  What  good  man  ever  was  not  ? 
It  were  easy  to  be  endless  both  in  torments  and  suffer¬ 
ers  ;  whereof  each  hath  begun  to  other,  all  to  us.  I  may 
not  hope  to  speed  better  than  the  best  Christians.  I 
cannot  fear  to  fare  worse.  It  is  no  matter  which  way  I 
go,  so  I  come  to  heaven. 

LXVII. 

There  is  nothing  beside  life,  of  this  nature,  that  it  is 
diminished  by  addition.  Every  moment  we  live  longer 
than  other,  and  each  moment  that  we  live  longer  is  so 
much  more  taken  out  of  our  life.  It  increasetli  and  dimin- 
isheth  only  by  minutes,  and  therefore  is  not  perceived. 
The  shorter  steps  it  taketh,  the  more  slily  it  passeth. 
Time  shall  not  so  steal  upon  me,  that  I  shall  not  discern 
it,  and  catch  it  by  the  forelocks  ;  nor  so  steal  from  me , 
that  it  shall  carry  with  it  no  witness  of  his  passage,  in 
my  proficiency. 

LX  VIII. 

✓ 

The  prodigal  man,  while  he  spendeth,  is  magnified  ; 
when  he  is  spent,  is  pitied;  and  that  is  all  his  re  com- 


120 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


pense  for  his  lavished  patrimony.  The  covetous  man  is 
grudged  while  he  lives,  and  his  death  is  rejoiced  at ;  for 
when  he  ends,  his  riches  begin  to  be  goods.  He  that 
wisely  keeps  the  mean  between  both,  liveth  well,  and 
hears  well ; — neither  repined  at  by  the  needy,  nor  pitied 
by  greater  men.  I  would  so  manage  these  worldly 
commodities,  as  accounting  them  mine  to  dispose,  others’ 
to  partake  of. 


LXIX. 

A  good  name — if  any  earthly  thing— is  worth  seek¬ 
ing,  worth  striving  for.  Yet  to  affect  a  bare  name, 
when  we  deserve  either  ill  or  nothing,  is  but  a  proud 
hypocrisy  ;  and  to  be  puffed  up  with  the  wrongful  esti¬ 
mation  of  others  mistaking  our  worth,  is  an  idle  and  ri¬ 
diculous  pride.  Thou  art  well  spoken  of  upon  no  de¬ 
sert.  What  then  ?  Thou  hast  deceived  thy  neighbors, 
they  one  another,  and  all  of  them  have  deceived  thee ; 
for  thou  madest  them  think  of  thee  otherwise  than  thou 
art ;  and  they  have  made  thee  think  of  thyself  as  thou 
art  accounted.  The  deceit  came  from  thee,  the  shame 
will  end  in  thee.  I  will  account  no  wrong  greater  than 
for  a  man  to  esteem  and  report  me  above  that  I  am : 
not  rejoicing  in  that  I  am  well  thought  of,  but  in  that  I 
am  such  as  I  am  esteemed. 

LXX. 

It  was  a  speech  worthy  the  commendation  and  fre¬ 
quent  remembrance  of  so  divine  a  bishop  as  Augustine, 
which  is  reported  of  an  aged  father  in  his  time  ;  who, 
when  liis  friends  comforted  him  on  his  sick  bed,  and  told 
him  they  hoped  he  should  recover,  answered,  If  I  shall 


C  E  N  T  UR  Y  III  . 


121 


not  die  at  all,  well ;  but  if  ever,  why  not  now  ?  Surely 
it  is  folly,  what  we  must  do,  to  do  unwillingly.  I  will 
never  think  my  soul  in  a  good  case,  so  long  as  I  am  loth 
to  think  of  dying  ;  and  will  make  this  my  comfort — not, 
I  shall  yet  live  longer ;  but,  1  shall  yet  do  more  good. 

LXXI. 

Excesses  are  never  alone.  Commonly  those  that 
have  excellent  parts,  have  some  extremely  vicious  quali¬ 
ties.  Great  wits  have  great  errors,  and  great  estates 
have  great  cares :  whereas  mediocrity  of  gifts  or  of  es¬ 
tates  hath  usually  but  easy  inconveniences ;  else  the 
excellent  would  not  know  themselves,  and  the  mean 
would  be  too  much  dejected.  Now  those  whom  we  ad¬ 
mire  for  their  faculties,  we  pity  for  their  infirmities ;  and 
those  which  find  themselves  but  of  the  ordinary  pitch, 
joy  that  as  their  virtues,  so  their  vices,  are  not  eminent. 
So  the  highest  have  a  blemished  glory,  and  the  mean 
are  contentedly  secure.  I  will  magnify  the  highest,  but 
affect  the  mean. 

LXXII. 

The  body  is  the  case,  or  sheath  of  the  mind,  yet  as 
naturally  it  hideth  it,  so  it  doth  also  many  times  discover 
it ;  for  although  the  forehead,  eyes,  and  frame  of  the 
countenance,  do  sometimes  belie  the  disposition  of  the 
heart,  yet  most  commonly  they  give  true  general  ver¬ 
dicts.  An  angry  man’s  brows  are  bent  together  and  his 
eyes  sparkle  with  rage  ;  which,  when  he  is  well  pleased 
look  smooth  and  cheerfully.  Envy  hath  one  look,  de¬ 
sire  another  ;  sorrow  yet  another  ;  contentment  a  fourth, 
different  from  all  the  rest.  To  show  no  passion,  is  too 


122 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


stoical ;  to  show  all,  is  impotent ;  to  show  other  than  we 
feel,  hypocritical.  The  face  and  gesture  do  but  write  and 
make  commentaries  upon  the  heart.  I  will  first  endeavor 
so  to  frame  and  order  that,  as  not  to  entertain  any  passion 
but  what  I  need  not  care  to  have  laid  open  to  the  world  ; 
and  therefore  will  first  see  that  the  text  be  good ;  then, 
that  the  gloss  be  true  ;  and  lastly,  that  it  be  sparing. 
To  what  eind  hath  God  so  walled  in  the  heart,  if  I  should 
let  every  man’s  eyes  into  it  by  my  countenance  ? 

LXXIII. 

There  is  no  public  action  which  the  world  is  not  rea¬ 
dy  to  scan.  There  is  no  action  so  private  which  the 
evil  spirits  are  not  witnesses  of.  I  will  endeavor  so  to 
live  as  knowing  that  I  am  ever  in  the  eyes  of  mine  ene¬ 
mies. 


LXXIV. 

When  we  ourselves,  and  all  other  vices  are  old,  then 
covetousness  alone  is  young  and  at  his  best  age.  This 
vice  loves  to  dwell  in  an  old  ruinous  cottage  ;  yet  that 
age  can  have  no  such  honest  color  for  niggardliness  and 
insatiable  desire.  A  young  man  might  plead  the  uncer¬ 
tainty  of  his  estate,  and  doubt  of  his  future  need ;  but 
an  old  man  sees  his  set  period  before  him.  Since  this 
humor  is  so  necessarily  annexed  to  this  age,  I  will  turn 
it  the  right  way,  and  nourish  it  in  myself.  The  older  I 
grow  the  more  covetous  I  will  be  ;  but  of  the  riches,  not 
of  the  world  I  am  leaving,  but  of  the  world  I  am  enter¬ 
ing  into.  It  is  good  coveting  what  I  may  have,  and 
cannot  leave  behind  me. 


CENTURY  III. 


123 


LXXV. 

There  is  a  mutual  hatred  betwixt  a  Christian  and  the 
world ;  for,  on  the  one  side,  the  love  of  the  world  is  en¬ 
mity  with  God,  and  God’s  children  cannot  but  take  their 
Father’s  part.  On  the  other,  the  world  hates  you  be¬ 
cause  it  hated  me  first ;  but  the  hatred  of  the  good  man 
to  the  wicked  is  not  so  extreme  as  that  wherewith  he  is 
hated  ;  for  the  Christian  hates  ever  with  commiseration 
and  love  of  that  good  he  sees  in  the  worst ;  knowing 
that  the  essence  of  the  very  devils  is  good,  and  that  the 
lewdest  man  hath  some  excellent  parts  of  nature,  or 
common  graces  of  the  Spirit  of  God, — which  he  warily 
singleth  out  in  his  affection.  But  the  wicked  man  hates 
him  for  goodness,  and  therefore  finds  nothing  in  himself 
to  moderate  his  detestation.  There  can  be  no  better 
music  in  my  ear  than  the  discord  of  the  wicked.  If  he 
like  me,  I  am  afraid  he  spies  some  quality  in  me  like  to 
his  own.  If  he  saw  nothing  but  goodness,  he  could  not 
love  me  and  be  bad  himself.  It  was  a  just  doubt  of 
Phocion,  who,  when  the  people  praised  him,  asked, 

‘  What  evil  have  I  done  ?’  I  will  strive  to  deserve  evil 
of  none  ;  but  not  deserving  ill,  it  shall  not  grieve  me  to 
hear  ill,  of  those  that  are  eviL  I  know  no  greater  ar¬ 
gument  of  goodness,  than  the  hatred  of  a  wicked  man. 

LXXVI. 

A  man  that  comes  hungry  to  his  meal,  feeds  heartily 
on  the  meat  set  before  him  ;  not  regarding  the  metal  or 
form  of  the  platter  wherein  it  is  served  ;  who,  afterwards, 
when  his  stomach  is  satisfied,  begins  to  play  with  the 
dish,  or  to  read  sentences  on  his  trencher.  Those  auditors 


124 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


which  can  find  nothing  to  do,  but  note  elegant  words  and 
phrases  in  rhetorical  colors,  or  perhaps  an  ill  grace  of 
gesture  in  a  pithy  and  material  speech,  argue  themselves 
full  ere  they  came  to  the  feast,  and  therefore  go  away 
with  a  little  pleasure,  no  profit.  In  hearing  others,  my 
only  intention  shall  be,  to  feed  my  mind  with  solid  mat¬ 
ter.  If  my  ear  can  get  aught  by  the  way,  I  will  not 
grudge  it,  but  I  will  not  intend  it. 

LXXVII. 

The  joy  of  a  Christian  in  these  worldly  things  is  lim¬ 
ited,  and  ever  awed  with  fear  of  excess,  but  recom¬ 
pensed  abundantly  with  his  spiritual  mirth  ;  whereas  the 
worldling  gives  the  reins  to  his  mind  and  pours  himself 
out  into  pleasure,  fearing  only  that  he  shall  not  joy 
enough.  He  that  is  but  half  a  Christian,  lives  but  miser¬ 
ably  ;  for  he  neither  enjoyeth  God,  nor  the  world. 
Not  God,  because  he  hath  not  grace  enough  to  make 
him  his  own  ;  not  the  world,  because  he  hath  some  taste 
of  grace,  enough  to  show  him  the  vanity  and  sin  of  his 
pleasures.  So  the  sound  Christian  hath  his  heaven 
above ;  the  worldling,  here  below  ;  the  unsettled  Chris¬ 
tian,  nowhere. 

LXXVIII. 

Good  deeds  are  very  fruitful ;  and — not  so  much  of 
their  nature  as  of  God’s  blessing — multipliable.  We 
think  ten  in  the  hundred,  extreme  and  biting  usury. 
God  gives  us  more  than  an  hundred  for  ten  ;  yea,  above 
the  increase  of  the  grain  which  we  commend  most  for 
multiplication ;  for  out  of  one  good  action  of  ours,  God 
produceth  a  thousand,  the  harvest  whereof  is  perpetual. 


CENTURY  III. 


125 


Even  tlie  faithful  actions  of  the  old  patriarchs,  the  con¬ 
stant  sufferings  of  ancient  martyrs,  live  still,  and  do  good 
to  all  successions  of  ages  by  their  example  ;  for  public 
actions  of  virtue — besides  that  they  are  presently  com¬ 
fortable  to  the  doer — are  also  exemplary  to  others  ;  and 
as  they  are  more  beneficial  to  others,  so  are  more  crown¬ 
ed  in  us.  If  good  deeds  were  utterly  barren  and  incom¬ 
modious,  I  would  seek  after  them  for  the  conscience  of 
their  own  goodness.  How  much  more  shall  I  now  be 
encouraged  to  perform  them,  for  that  they  are  so  profit¬ 
able  both  to  myself  and  to  others,  and  to  me  in  others. 
My  principal  care  shall  be  that  while  my  soul  lives  in 
glory  in  heaven,  my  good  actions  may  live  upon  earth ; 
and  that  they  may  be  put  into  the  bank  and  multiply, 
while  my  body  lies  in  the  grave  and  consumeth. 

LXXIX. 

A  Christian,  for  the  sweet  fruit  he  bears  to  God  and 
men,  is  compared  to  the  noblest  of  all  plants,  the  vine. 
Now  as  the  most  generous  vine  if  it  be  not  pruned,  runs 
out  into  many  superfluous  stems,  and  grows  at  last  weak 
and  fruitless  ;  so  doth  the  best  man,  if  he  be  cut  short  of 
his  desires,  and  pruned  with  afflictions.  If  it  be  painful 
to  bleed,  it  is  worse  to  wither.  Let  me  be  pruned  that  I 
may  grow,  rather  than  cut  up  to  burn. 

LXXX. 

Those  that  do  but  superficially  taste  of  divine  know¬ 
ledge,  find  little  sweetness  in  it ;  and  are  ready,  for  the 
unpleasant  relish,  to  abhor  it ;  whereas  if  they  would 
dive  deep  into  the  sea,  they  should  find  fresh  water  near 
to  the  bottom.  That  it  savors  not  well  at  the  first,  is  the 


126 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


fault,  not  of  it,  but  of  the  distempered  palate  that  tastes 
it.  Good  metals  and  minerals  are  not  found  close  un¬ 
der  the  skin  of  the  earth,  but  below  in  the  bowels  of  it. 
No  good  miner  casts  away  his  mattock  because  he  finds 
a  vein  of  tough  clay,  or  a  shelf  of  stone,  but  still  delveth 
lower,  and  passing  thorough  many  changes  of  soil,  at 
last  comes  to  his  rich  treasure.  We  are  too  soon  dis¬ 
couraged  in  our  spiritual  gains.  I  will  still  persevere  to 
seek,  hardening  myself  against  all  difficulty.  There  is 
comfort  even  in  seeking  hope  ;  and  there  is  joy  in  hop¬ 
ing  good  success ;  and  in  that  success  is  happiness. 

LXXXI. 

He  that  hath  any  experience  in  spiritual  matters, 
knows  that  Satan  is  ever  more  violent  at  the  last ;  then 
raging  most  furiously,  when  he  knows  he  shall  rage  but 
a  while.  Hence  of  the  persecutions  of  the  first  church, 
the  tenth  and  last,  under  Diocletian  and  Maximinian, 
and  those  other  five  tyrants,  was  the  bloodiest.  Hence 
this  age  is  the  most  dissolute,  because  nearest  the  con¬ 
clusion.  And  as  this  is  his  course  in  the  universal  as¬ 
saults  of  the  whole  church  ;  so  it  is  the  same  in  his  con¬ 
flicts  with  every  Christian  soul.  Like  a  subtil  orator, 
he  reserves  his  strongest  force  till  the  shutting  up.  And 
therefore  miserable  is  the  folly  of  those  men  who  defer 
their  repentance  till  then,  when  their  onset  shall  be  most 
sharp,  and  they  through  pain  of  body  and  perplexedness 
of  mind,  shall  be  least  able  to  resist.  Those  that  have 
long  furnished  themselves  with  spiritual  munition,  find 
work  enough  in  this  extreme  brunt  of  temptation  ;  how 
then  should  the  careless  man,  that  with  the  help  of  all 
opportunities  could  not  find  grace  to  repent,  hope  to 


CENTURY  III. 


127 


achieve  it  at  the  last  gasp,  against  greater  force,  with  less 
means,  more  distraction,  no  leisure?  Wise  princes 
use  to  prepare  ten  years  before  for  a  field  of  one  day.  I 
will  every  day  lay  up  somewhat  for  my  last.  If  I  win 
that  skirmish,  I  have  enough.  The  first  and  second 
blow  begin  the  battle,  but  the  last  only  wins  it. 

lxxxii. 

I  observe  three  seasons  wherein  a  wise  man  differs 
not  from  a  fool ; — in  his  infancy,  in  sleep,  and  in  silence. 
For  in  the  two  former,  we  are  all  fools ;  and  in  silence, 
all  are  wise.  In  the  two  former,  yet  there  may  be  con¬ 
cealment  of  folly  ;  but  the  tongue  is  a  blab.  There  can¬ 
not  be  any  kind  of  folly,  either  simple  or  wicked,  in  the 
heart,  but  the  tongue  will  bewray  it.  He  cannot  be  wise 
that  speaks  much,  or  without  sense,  or  out  of  season  ; 
nor  he  known  for  a  fool,  that,  says  nothing.  It  is  a 
great  misery  to  be  a  fool ;  but  this  is  yet  greater,  that  a 
man  cannot  be  a  fool  but  he  must  show  it.  It  were  well 
for  such  a  one  if  he  could  be  taught  to  keep  close  his 
foolishness.  But  then  there  should  be  no  fools.  I  have 
heard  some — which  have  scorned  the  opinion  of  folly  in 
themselves — for  a  speech  wherein  they  have  hoped  to 
show  most  wit,  censured  of  folly,  by  him  that  hath  thought 
himself  wiser;  and  another,  hearing  his  sentence  again, 
hath  condemned  him  for  want  of  wit  in  censuring.  Sure¬ 
ly  he  is  not  a  fool  that  hath  unwise  thoughts,  but  he  that 
utters  them.  Even  concealed  folly  is  wisdom ;  and 
sometimes  wisdom  uttered  is  folly.  While  others  care 
how  to  speak,  my  care  shall  be  how  to  hold  my  peace. 


128 


MEDITATIONS  AND  YOWS. 


\ 


LXXXIIL 

A  work  is  then  only  good  and  acceptable  when  the 
action,  meaning  and  manner,  are  all  good ;  for  to  do 
good  with  an  ill  meaning — as  Judas  saluted  Christ  to  be¬ 
tray  him — is  so  much  more  sinful,  by  how  much  the  ac¬ 
tion  is  better ;  which,  being  good  in  the  kind,  is  abused 
to  an  ill  purpose.  To  do  ill  in  a  good  meaning — as 
Uzzah  in  staying  the  ark — is  so  much  amiss,  that  the 
good  intention  cannot  bear  out  the  unlawful  act ;  which, 
although  it  may  seem  some  excuse  why  it  should  not  be 
so  ill,  yet  is  no  warrant  to  justify  it.  To  mean  well,  and 
do  a  good  action  in  an  ill  manner — as  the  Pharisee  made 
a  good  prayer,  but  arrogantly — is  so  offensive,  that  the 
evil  manner  depraveth  both  the  other.  So  a  thing  may 
be  evil  upon  one  circumstance  ;  it  cannot  be  good,  but 
upon  all.  In  whatever  business  I  go  about,  I  will  in¬ 
quire,  what  I  do,  for  the  substance  ;  how,  for  the  man¬ 
ner  ;  why,  for  the  intention :  for  the  two  first,  I  will 
consult  with  God  ;  for  the  last,  with  my  own  heart. 

LXXXIV. 

I  can  do  nothing  without  a  million  of  witnesses.  The 
conscience  is  as  a  thousand  witnesses,  and  God  is  as  a 
thousand  consciences.  I  will  therefore  so  deal  with  men, 
as  knowing  that  God  sees  me  ;  and  so  with  God,  as  if  the 
world  saw  me ;  so  with  myself  and  both  of  them,  as 
knowing  that  my  conscience  seeth  me  ;  and  so  with  them 
all,  as  knowing  I  am  always  overlooked  by  my  accuser, 
by  my  Judge. 


CENTURY  III. 


129 


LXXXV. 

Earthly  inheritances  are  divided  ofttimes  with  much' 
inequality.  The  privilege  of  primogeniture  stretcheth 
larger  in  many  places  now,  than  it  did  among  the  an¬ 
cient  Jews.  The  younger  many  times  serves  the  elder 
and  while  the  eldest  aboundeth,  all  the  latter  issue  is 
pinched.  In  heaven  it  is  not  so.  All  the  sons  of  God 
are  heirs,  none  underlings  ;  and  not  heirs  under  wardship 
and  hope,  but  inheritors  ;  and  not  inheritors  of  any  little 
pittance  of  land,  but  of  a  kingdom ;  nor  of  an  earthly 
kingdom,  subject  to  danger  of  loss  or  alteration,  but  one 
glorious  and  everlasting.  It  shall  content  me  here,  that 
having  right  to  all  things,  yet  I  have  possession  of  no¬ 
thing  but  sorrow.  Since  I  shall  have  possession  above, 
of  all  that  whereto  I  have  right  below,  I  will  serve  wil¬ 
lingly,  that  I  may  reign  ;  serve  for  a  while,  that  I  may 
reign  forever. 

LXXXVI. 

Even  the  best  things,  ill  used,  become  evils ;  and  con- 
trarily  the  worst  things,  used  well,  prove  good.  A  good 
tongue,  used  to  deceit ;  a  good  wit,  used  to  defend  er¬ 
ror  ;  a  strong  arm,  to  murder  ;  authority,  to  oppress  ;  a 
good  profession,  to  dissemble — are  all  evil.  Yea,  God’s 
own  word  is  the  sword  of  the  Spirit ;  which,  if  it  kill  not 
our  vices,  kills  our  souls.  Contrariwise — as  poisons  are 
used  to  wholesome  medicine — afflictions  and  sins,  by  a 
good  use,  prove  so  gainful,  as  nothing  more.  AYords 
are  as  they  are  taken,  and  things  are  as  they  are  used. 
There  are  even  cursed  blessings.  0  Lord,  rather  give  me 
no  favors,  than  not  grace  to  use  them.  If  I  want  them, 

9 


130 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


thou  requirest  not  what  thou  dost  not  give  ;  but  if  I  have 
them,  and  want  their  use,  thy  mercy  proves  my  judg¬ 
ment. 


LXXXVII. 

Man  is  the  best  of  all  these  inferior  creatures ;  yet 
lives  in  more  sorrow  and  discontentment  than  the  worst 
of  them ;  whiles  that  reason,  wherein  he  excels  them, 
and  by  which  he  might  make  advantage  of  his  life,  he 
abuses  to  a  suspicious  distrust.  How  many  hast  thou 
found  of  the  fowls  of  the  air,  lying  dead  in  the  way  for 
want  of  provision  ?  They  eat  and  rest  and  sing  and 
want  nothing.  Man,  which  hath  far  better  means  to 
live  comfortably,  toileth  and  careth  and  wanteth,  whom 
yet  his  reason  alone  might  teach  that  He  which  careth 
for  these  lower  creatures  made  only  for  man,  will  much 
more  provide  for  man,  to  whose  use  they  were  made. 
There  is  an  holy  carelessness,  free  from  idleness,  free 
from  distrust.  In  these  earthly  things,  I  will  so  depend 
on  my  Maker,  that  my  trust  in  him  may  not  exclude  all 
my  labor ;  and  yet  so  labor — upon  my  confidence  on 
him — as  my  endeavor  may  be  void  of  perplexity. 

LXXXVIII. 

The  precepts  and  practice  of  those  with  whom  we 
live,  avail  much  on  either  part.  For  a  man  not  to  be 
ill,  where  he  hath  no  provocations  to  evil,  is  less  com¬ 
mendable.  But  for  a  man  to  live  continently  in  Asia — 
as  he  said — where  he  sees  nothing  but  allurements  to  un¬ 
cleanness  ;  for  Lot  to  be  a  good  man  in  the  middest 
of  Sodom ;  to  be  abstemious  in  Germany ;  and  in  Italy, 
chaste  ;  this  is  truly  praiseworthy.  To  sequester  our- 


CENTURY  III. 


131 


selves  from  the  company  of  the  world,  that  we  may  de¬ 
part  from  their  vices,  proceeds  from  a  base  and  distrust¬ 
ing  mind ;  as  if  we  would  so  force  goodness  upon  our¬ 
selves,  that  therefore  only  we  would  be  good,  because 
we  cannot  be  ill.  But  for  a  man  so  to  be  personally  and 
in  the  throng  of  the  world,  as  to  withdraw  his  affections 
from  it ;  to  use  it,  and  yet  to  contemn  it  at  once ;  to 
compel  it  to  his  service  without  any  infection  ;  becomes 
well  the  noble  courage  of  a  Christian.  The  world  shall 
be  mine,  I  will  not  be  his ;  and  yet  so  mine,  that  his 
evil  shall  be  still  his  own. 

L  XXXIX. 

He  that  lives  in  God,  cannot  be  weary  of  his  life,  be¬ 
cause  he  ever  finds  both  somewhat  to  do,  and  somewhat 
to  solace  himself  with ;  cannot  be  over-loth  to  part  with  it, 
because  he  shall  enter  into  a  nearer  life  and  society  with 
that  God  in  whom  he  delighteth.  Whereas  he  that  lives 
without  him,  lives  many  times  uncomfortably  here ;  be¬ 
cause  partly  he  knows  not  any  cause  of  joy  in  himself, 
and  partly  he  finds  not  any  worthy  employment  to  while 
himself  withal ;  dies  miserably,  because  he  either  knows 
not  whither  he  goes,  or  knows  he  goes  to  torment.  There 
is  no  true  life,  but  the  life  of  faith.  O  Lord,  let  me  live 
out  of  the  world  with  thee,  if  thou  wilt ;  but  let  me  not 
live  in  the  world  without  thee. 

XC. 

Sin  is  both  evil  in  itself,  and  the  effect  of  a  former 
evil,  and  the  cause  of  sin  following ;  a  cause  of  punish¬ 
ment,  and  lastly  a  punishment  itself.  It  is  a  damnable 
iniquity  in  man,  to  multiply  one  sin  upon  another ;  but 


132  MEDITATIONS  AND  TOWS. 

to  punish  one  sin  by  another,  in  God  is  a  judgment,  both 
most  just  and  most  fearful — so  as  all  the  storehouse  of 
God  hath  not  a  greater  vengeance.  With  other  punish¬ 
ments,  the  body  smarteth ;  the  soul  with  this.  I  care 
not  how  God  offends  me  with  punishments,  so  he  pun¬ 
ish  me  not  with  offending  him. 

XCI. 

I  have  seen  some  afflict  their  bodies  with  willful  fam¬ 
ine,  and  scourges  of  their  own  making.  God  spares  me 
that  labor ;  for  he  whips  me  daily  with  the  scourge  of  a 
weak  body,  and  sometimes  with  ill  tongues.  He  holds 
me  short  many  times  of  the  feeling  of  his  comfortable 
presence  ;  which  is  in  truth  so  much  more  miserable  an 
hunger  than  that  of  the  body,  by  how  much  the  soul  is 
more  tender,  and  the  food  denied,  more  excellent.  He 
is  my  Father ;  infinitely  wise  to  proportion  out  my  cor¬ 
rection  according  to  my  estate  ;  and  infinitely  loving,  in 
fitting  me  with  a  due  measure.  He  is  a  presumptuous 
child  that  will  make  choice  of  his  own  rod.  Let  me  learn 
to  make  a  right  use  of  his  corrections,  and  I  shall  not 
need  to  correct  myself ;  and  if  it  should  please  God  to 
remit  his  hand  a  little,  I  will  govern  my  body  as  a  mas¬ 
ter,  not  as  a  tyrant. 


XCII. 

If  God  had  not  said  ‘  Blessed  are  those  that  hunger,’ 
I  know  not  what  could  keep  weak  Christians  from  sink¬ 
ing  in  despair.  Many  times,  all  I  can  do  is  to  find  and 
complain  that  I  want  him  and  wish  to  recover  him. 
Now  this  is  my  stay,  that  he  in  mercy  esteems  us  not 
only  by  having,  but  by  desiring  also,  and,  after  a  sort, 


t 


C  ENTURY  III. 


133 


accounts  us  to  have  that  which  we  want,  and  desire  to 
have  ;  and  my  soul,  assuming,  tells  me  I  do  unfeignedly 
wish  him,  and  long  after  that  grace  I  miss.  Let  me  de¬ 
sire  still  more,  and  I  know  I  shall  not  desire  always. 
There  was  never  soul  miscarried  with  longing  after 
grace.  O  blessed  hunger,  that  ends  always  in  fullness  ! 
I  am  sorry  that  I  can  but  hunger,  and  yet  I  would  not 
be  full ;  for  the  blessing  is  promised  to  the  hungry. 
Give  me  more,  Lord,  but  so  as  I  may  hunger  more. 
Let  me  hunger  more,  and  I  know  I  shall  be  satisfied. 

XCIII. 

There  is  more  in  the  Christian  than  thou  seest ;  for 
he  is  both  an  entire  body  of  himself,  and  he  is  a  limb  of 
another  more  excellent — even  that  glorious  mystical  body 
of  his  Saviour,  to  whom  he  is  so  united,  that  the  actions 
of  either  are  reciprocally  referred  to  each  other — for  on 
the  one  side,  the  Christian  lives  in  Christ,  dies  in  Christ, 
in  Christ  fulfils  the  law,  possesseth  heaven  ;  on  the  other, 
Christ  is  persecuted  by  Paul,  in  his  members,  and  is  per¬ 
secuted  in  Paul  afterwards  by  others.  He  suffers  in  us 
he  lives  in  us,  he  works  in  and  by  us.  So  thou  canst  not 
do  either  good  or  harm  to  a  Christian,  but  thou  dost  it  to 
his  Redeemer,  to  whom  he  is  invisibly  united.  Thou 
seest  him  as  a  man,  and  therefore  worthy  of  favor  for 
humanity’s  sake.  Thou  seest  him  not  as  a  Christian, 
worthy  of  honor  for  his  secret  and  yet  true  union  with 
our  Saviour.  I  will  love  every  Christian  for  that  I  see ; 
honor  him,  for  that  I  shall  see. 

XCIV. 

Hell  itself  is  scarce  a  more  obscure  dungeon  in  com- 


134 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


parison  of  the  earth,  than  earth  is  in  respect  of  heaven. 
Here,  the  most  see  nothing,  and  the  best  see  little  ;  here, 
half  our  life  is  night,  and  our  very  day  is  darkness,  in  re¬ 
spect  of  God.  The  true  light  of  the  world,  and  the  Fa¬ 
ther  of  lights  dwelleth  above.  There  is  the  light  of 
knowledge  to  inform  us,  and  the  light  of  joy  to  comfort 
us,  without  all  change  of  darkness.  There  was  never 
any  captive  loved  his  dungeon,  and  complained  when  he 
must  be  brought  out  to  light  and  liberty.  Whence  then 
is  this  natural  madness  in  us  men,  that  we  delight  so 
much  in  this  unclean,  noisome,  dark  and  comfortless 
prison  of  earth,  and  think  not  of  our  release  to  that  light¬ 
some  and  glorious  Paradise  above  us,  without  grief  and 
repining  ?  We  are  sure  that  we  are  not  perfectly  well 
here.  If  we  could  be  as  sure  that  we  should  be  better 
above,  w*e  would  not  fear  changing.  Certainly  our 
sense  tells  us  we  have  some  pleasure  here,  and  we  have 
not  faith  to  assure  us  of  more  pleasure  above ;  and 
hence  we  settle  ourselves  to  the  present,  with  neglect  of 
the  future,  though  infinitely  more  excellent.  The  heart 
follows  the  eye,  and  unknown  good  is  uncared  for.  O 
Lord,  do  thou  break  thorough  this  darkness  of  ignorance 
and  faithlessness  wherewith  I  am  compassed.  Let  me 
but  see  my  heaven,  and  I  know  I  shall  desire  it. 

xcv. 

To  be  carried  away  with  an  affectation  of  fame,  is  so 
vain  and  absurd,  that  I  wonder  it  can  be  incident  to 
any  wise  man.  For  what  a  molehill  of  earth  is  it  to 
which  his  name  can  extend,  when  it  is  furthest  carried 
by  the  wings  of  report ;  and  how  short  a  while  doth  it 
continue  where  it  is  once  spread !  Time,  the  devourer  of 


CENTURY  III. 


135 


his  own  brood,  consumes  both  us  and  our  memories. 
Not  brass,  nor  marble,  can  bear  age.  How  many  flat¬ 
tering  poets  have  promised  immortality  of  name  to  their 
princes,  who  now  together  are  buried  long  since  in  for¬ 
getfulness  !  Those  names  and  actions  that  are  once  on 
the  file  of  heaven,  are  past  the  danger  of  defacing.  I 
will  not  care  whether  I  be  known,  or  remembered,  or 
forgotten  amongst  men,  if  my  name  and  good  actions 
may  live  with  God,  in  the  records  of  eternity. 

XCVI. 

There  is  no  man,  nor  no  place,  free  from  spirits  ;  al¬ 
though  they  testify  their  presence  by  visible  effects  but 
in  few.  Every  man  is  an  host  to  entertain  angels, 
though  not  in  visible  shapes,  as  Abraham  and  Lot. 
The  evil  ones  do  nothing  but  provoke  us  to  sin,  and  plot 
mischiefs  against  us,  by  casting  into  our  way  dangerous 
objects,  by  suggesting  sinful  motions  to  our  minds,  stir¬ 
ring  up  enemies  against  us  amongst  men,  by  frighting  us 
with  terrors  in  ourselves,  by  accusing  us  to  God.  On 
the  contrary,  the  good  angels  are  ever  removing  our 
hinderances  from  good,  and  our  occasions  of  evil ;  miti¬ 
gating  our  tentations,  helping  us  against  our  enemies, 
delivering  us  from  dangers,  comforting  us  in  sorrows, 
furthering  our  good  purposes,  and  at  last  carrying  up  our 
souls  to  heaven.  It  would  affright  a  weak  Christian, 
that  knows  the  power  and  malice  of  wicked  spirits,  to 
consider  their  presence  and  number  ;  but  when,  with  the 
eyes  of  Elisha’s  servant,  he  sees  those  on  his  side  as 
present,  as  diligent,  more  powerful,  he  cannot  but  take 
heart  again ;  especially  if  he  considers  that  neither  of 
them  is  without  God  limiting  the  one  the  bounds  of 


136 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


their  tentation,  directing  the  other  in  the  safe-guard  of 
liis  children.  Whereupon  it  is  come  to  pass,  that,  though 
there  be  many  legions  of  devils  and  every  one  more 
strong  than  many  legions  of  men,  and  more  malicious 
than  strong,  yet  the  little  flock  of  God’s  church  liveth  and 
prospereth.  I  have  ever  with  me  invisible  friends  and 
enemies.  The  consideration  of  mine  enemies  shall  keep 
me  from  security  and  make  me  fearful  of  doing  aught  to 
advantage  them.  The  consideration  of  my  spiritual 
friends  shall  comfort  me  against  the  terror  of  the  other ; 
shall  remedy  my  solitariness  ;  shall  make  me  wary  of 
doing  aught  indecently  ;  grieving  me  rather  that  I  have 
ever  heretofore  made  them  turn  away  their  eyes,  for 
shame  of  that  whereof  I  have  not  been  ashamed  ;  that  I 
have  no  more  enjoyed  their  society ;  that  I  have  been 
no  more  affected  with  their  presence.  What  though  I 
see  them  not ;  I  believe  them.  I  were  no  Christian,  if 
my  faith  were  not  as  sure  as  my  sense. 

XCVII. 

There  is  no  word  or  action,  but  may  be  taken  with 
two  hands, — either  with  the  right  hand  of  charitable 
construction,  or  the  sinister  interpretation  of  malice  and 
suspicion — and  all  things  do  so  succeed  as  they  are  ta¬ 
ken.  I  have  noted  evil  actions  well  taken,  pass  current 
for  either  indifferent  or  commendable.  Contrarily,  a 
good  speech  or  action,  ill  taken,  scarce  allowed  for  in¬ 
different  ;  an  indifferent  one,  censured  for  evil ;  an  evil 
one,  for  notorious.  So  favor  makes  virtues  of  vices,  and 
suspicion  makes  virtues  faults,  and  faults  crimes.  Of 
the  two,  I  had  rather  my  right  hand  should  offend.  It 
is  always  safer  offending  on  the  better  part.  To  con- 


CENTURY  III. 


137 


strue  an  evil  act  well,  is  but  a  pleasing  and  profitable 
deceit  of  myself ;  but  to  misconstrue  a  good  thing  is  a 
treble  wrong  ;  to  myself,  the  action,  the  author.  If  no 
good  sense  can  be  made  of  a  deed  or  speech,  let  the 
blame  light  upon  the  author ;  if  a  good  interpretation 
may  be  given,  and  I  choose  a  worse,  let  me  be  as  much 
censured  of  others,  as  that  misconceit  is  punishment  to 
myself. 


XCVIII. 

I  know  not  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  the  mind  of 
man  doth  naturally  both  over-prize  his  own,  in  compari¬ 
son  of  others’,  and  yet  contemn  and  neglect  his  own,  in 
comparison  of  what  he  wants.  The  remedy  of  this  lat¬ 
ter  evil  is,  to  compare  the  good  things  we  have,  with  the 
evils  which  we  have  not  and  others  groan  under.  Thou 
art  in  health  and  regardest  it  not.  Look  on  the  misery 
of  those  which  on  their  bed  of  sickness,  through  extrem¬ 
ity  of  pain  and  anguish,  entreat  death  to  release  them. 
Thou  hast  clear  eyesight,  sound  limbs,  use  of  reason, 
and  passest  these  over  with  slight  respect.  Think  how 
many  there  are  which,  in  their  uncomfortable  blindness, 
would  give  all  the  world  for  but  one  glimpse  of  light ; 
how  many  that  deformedly  crawl  On  all  four,  after  the 
manner  of  the  most  lothsome  creatures  ;  how  many  that 
in  mad  phrensies  are  worse  than  brutish,  worse  than 
dead.  Thus  thou  mightest  be  and  art  not.  If  I  be 
not  happy  for  the  good  that  I  have,  I  am  yet  happy  for 
the  evils  that  I  might  have  had,  and  have  escaped.  I 
have  deserved  the  greatest  evil.  Every  evil  that  I  miss, 
is  a  new  mercy. 


138 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS. 


XCIX. 

Earth,  which  is  the  basest  element,  is  both  our  moth¬ 
er  that  brought  us  forth,  our  stage  that  bears  us  alive, 
and  our  grave  wherein  at  last  we  are  entombed  ;  giving 
to  us  both  our  original,  our  harbor,  our  sepulchre.  She 
hath  yielded  her  back  to  bear  thousands  of  generations, 
and  at  last  opened  her  mouth  to  receive  them  ;  so  swal¬ 
lowing  that  she  still  both  beareth  more,  and  looks  for 
more  ;  not  bewraying  any  change  in  herself,  while  she 
so  oft  hath  changed  her  brood  and  her  burden.  It  is  a 
wonder  we  can  be  proud  of  our  parentage  or  of  ourselves, 
while  we  see  both  the  baseness  and  stability  of  the  earth, 
whence  we  came.  What  difference  is  there  ?  Living 
earth  treads  upon  the  dead  earth,  which  afterwards  de¬ 
scends  into  the  grave,  as  senseless  and  dead,  as  the  earth 
that  receives  it.  Not  many  are  proud  of  their  souls, 
and  none  but  fools  can  be  proud  of  their  bodies.  While 
we  walk  and  look  upon  the  earth,  we  cannot  but  acknowl¬ 
edge  sensible  admonitions  of  humility,  and  while  we  re¬ 
member  them,  we  cannot  forget  ourselves.  It  is  a  mo¬ 
ther-like  favor  of  the  earth,  that  she  bears  and  nourish¬ 
es  me,  and  at  the  last  entertains  my  dead  carcass  ;  but 
it  is  a  greater  pleasure,  that  she  teaches  me  my  vileness 
by  her  own,  and  sends  me  to  heaven,  for  what  she 
wants. 

C. 

The  wicked  man  carrieth  every  day  a  brand  to  his 
hell,  till  his  heap  be  come  to  the  height ;  then  he  ceaseth 
sinning,  and  begins  his  torment ;  whereas  the  repentant, 
in  every  fit  of  holy  sorrow,  carries  away  a  whole  faggot 


CENTURY  III. 


139 


from  the  flame,  and  quencheth  the  coals  that  remain, 
with  his  tears.  There  is  no  torment  for  the  penitent ; 
no  redemption  for  the  obstinate.  Safety  consisteth  not 
in  not  sinning,  but  in  repenting ;  neither  is  it  sin  that 
condemns,  but  impenitence.  0  Lord,  I  cannot  be  right¬ 
eous,  let  me  be  repentant. 


The  estate  of  heavenly  and  earthly  things  is  plainly 
represented  to  us,  by  the  two  lights  of  heaven,  which  are 
appointed  to  rule  the  night  and  the  day.  Earthly  things 
are  rightly  resembled  by  the  moon,  which  being  nearest 
to  the  region  of  mortality  is  ever  in  changes,  and  never 
looks  upon  us  twice  with  the  same  face ;  and  when  it  is 
at  the  full,  is  blemished  with  some  dark  blots  not  capable 
of  any  illumination.  Heavenly  things  are  figured  by 
the  sun,  whose  great  and  glorious  light  is  both  natural  to 
itself  and  ever  constant.  That  other  fickle  and  dim  star 
is  fit  enough  for  the  night  of  misery,  wherein  we  live 
here  below  ;  and  this  firm  and  beautiful  light  is  but  good 
enough  for  that  day  of  glory,  which  the  saints  live  in.  If 
it  be  good  living  here,  where  our  sorrows  are  changed 
with  joys,  what  is  it  to  live  above  where  our  joys  change 
not  ?  I  cannot  look  upon  the  body  of  the  sun,  and  yet 
I  cannot  see  at  all  without  the  light  of  it.  I  cannot  be¬ 
hold  the  glory  of  thy  saints,  O  Lord ;  yet  without  the 
knowledge  of  it,  I  am  blind.  If  thy  creature  be  so  glori¬ 
ous  to  us  here  below ;  how  glorious  shall  thyself  be  to 
us  when  we  are  above  this  sun !  This  sun  shall  not 
shine  upward,  where  thy  glory  shineth.  The  greater 


140 


MEDITATIONS  AND  VOWS, 


light  extinguisheth  the  lesser.  O  thou  Sun  of  righteous¬ 
ness — which  shall  only  shine  to  me  when  I  am  glorified 
— do  thou  heat,  enlighten,  comfort  me  with  the  beams 
of  thy  presence,  till  I  be  glorified !  Amen. 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS: 

ONE  BOOK. 


/ 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


i. 

As  there  is  nothing  sooner  dry  than  a  tear,  so  there 
is  nothing  sooner  out  of  season  than  worldly  sorrow  : 
which  if  it  be  fresh  and  still  bleeding,  finds  some  to  com¬ 
fort  and  pity  it;  if  stale  and  skinned  over  with  time, 
is  rather  entertained  with  smiles  than  commiseration. 
But  the  sorrow  of  repentance  comes  never  out  of  time. 
All  times  are  alike  unto  that  eternity,  whereto  we  make 
our  spiritual  moans  : — that  which  is  past,  that  which  is 
future,  are  both  present  with  him.  It  is  neither  weak 
nor  uncomely,  for  an  old  man  to  weep  for  the  sins  of  his 
youth.  Those  tears  can  never  be  shed  either  too  soon 
or  too  late. 

II. 

Some  men  live  to  be  their  own  executors  for  their 
good  name,  which  they  see — not  honestly — buried,  be¬ 
fore  themselves  die.  Some  other,  of  great  place  and  ill 
desert,  part  with  their  good  name  and  breath  at  once. 
There  is  scarce  a  vicious  man  whose  name  is  not  rotten 
before  his  carcass.  Contrarily,  the  good  man’s  name  is 
ofttimes  heir  to  his  life  ;  either  born  after  the  death  of 


144 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


the  parent, — for  that  envy  would  not  suffer  it  to  come 
forth  before, — or,  perhaps,  so  well  grown  up  in  his  life¬ 
time,  that  the  hope  thereof  is  the  staff*  of  his  age  and  joy 
of  his  death.  A  wicked  man’s  name  may  be  feared 
awhile  ;  soon  after,  it  is  either  forgotten  or  cursed.  The 
good  man  either  sleepeth,  with  his  body,  in  peace,  or  wa- 
keth — as  his  soul — in  glory. 

III. 

Ofttimes  those  which  show  much  valor  while  there  is 
equal  possibility  of  life,  when  they  see  a  present  neces¬ 
sity  of  death,  are  found  most  shamefully  timorous. 
Their  courage  was  before  grounded  upon  hope  ;  that  cut 
off,  leaves  them  at  once  desperate  and  cowardly  :  where¬ 
as  men  of  feebler  spirits  meet  more  cheerfully  with 
death ;  because  though  their  courage  be  less,  yet  their 
expectation  was  more. 

IV. 

I  have  seldom  seen  the  son  of  an  excellent  and  famous 
man,  excellent.  But  that  an  ill  bird  hath  an  ill  egg,  is 
not  rare — children  possessing,  as  the  bodily  diseases,  so 
the  vices,  of  their  parents.  Virtue  is  not  propagated  : 
vice  is,  even  in  them  which  have  it  not  reigning  in  them¬ 
selves.  The  grain  is  sown  pure,  but  comes  up  with 
chaff  and  husk.  Hast  thou  a  good  son  ?  He  is  God’s, 
not  thine.  Is  he  evil  ?  Nothing  but  his  sin  is  thine. 
Help,  by  thy  prayers  and  endeavors,  to  take  away  that 
which  thou  hast  given  him,  and  to  obtain  from  God  that 
which  thou  hast,  and  canst  not  give.  Else  thou  may- 
est  name  him  a  possession,  but  thou  slialt  find  him  a 
loss. 


HOLT  OBSERVATIONS. 


145 


V. 

These  things  be  comely  and  pleasant  to  see,  and 
worthy  of  honor  from  the  beholder : — a  young  saint,  an 
old  martyr,  a  religious  soldier,  a  conscionable  statesman, 
a  great  man  courteous,  a  learned  man  humble,  a  silent  wo¬ 
man,  a  child  understanding  the  eye  of  his  parent,  a  mer¬ 
ry  companion  without  vanity,  a  friend  not  changed  with 
honor,  a  sick  man  cheerful,  a  soul  departing  with  com¬ 
fort  and  assurance. 


VI. 

I  have  oft  observed  in  merry  meetings  solemnly  made, 
that  somewhat  hath  fallen  out  cross,  either  in  the  time 
or  immediately  upon  it ;  to  season,  as  I  think,  our  im¬ 
moderation  in  desiring  or  enjoying  our  friends :  and 
again,  events  suspected  have  proved  ever  best — God 
herein  blessing  our  awful  submission  with  good  success. 
In  all  these  human  things,  indifferency  is  safe.  Let  thy 
doubts  be  ever  equal  to  thy  desires :  so  thy  disappoint¬ 
ment  shall  not  be  grievous,  because  thy  expectation  was 
not  peremptory. 

VII. 

You  shall  rarely  find  a  man  eminent  in  sundry  fac¬ 
ulties  of  mind,  or  sundry  manuary  trades.  If  his  mem¬ 
ory  be  excellent,  his  fantasy  is  but  dull :  if  his  fancy 
be  busy  and  quick,  his  judgment  is  but  shallow :  if 
his  judgment  be  deep,  his  utterance  is  harsh  : — which 
also  holds  no  less  in  the  activities  of  the  hand.  And  if 
it  happen  that  one  man  be  qualified  with  skill  of  di¬ 
vers  trades,  and  practice  this  variety,  you  shall  seldom 

10 


146 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


find  such  one  thriving  in  his  estate.  With  spiritual 
gifts,  it  is  otherwise ;  which  are  so  chained  together,  that 
who  excels  in  one  hath  some  eminence  in  more  ;  yea, 
in  all.  Look  upon  Faith — she  is  attended  with  a  bevy 
of  graces  :  he  that  believes,  cannot  but  have  hope ;  if 
hope,  patience.  He  that  believes  and  hopes,  must 
needs  find  joy  in  God :  if  joy,  love  of  God :  he  that 
loves  God,  cannot  but  love  his  brother.  His  love  to 
God  breeds  piety  and  care  to  please,  sorrow  for  offend¬ 
ing,  fear  to  offend :  his  love  to  men,  fidelity  and  Chris¬ 
tian  beneficence.  Vices  are  seldom  single,  but  virtues 
go  ever  in  troops.  They  go  so  thick,  that  sometimes 
some  are  hid  in  the  crowd ;  which  yet  are,  but  appear 
not.  They  may  be  shut  out  from  sight ;  they  cannot 
be  severed. 


VIII. 

The  heaven  ever  moves,  and  yet  is  the  place  of  our 
rest :  earth  ever  rests,  and  yet  is  the  place  of  our 
trouble.  Outward  motion  can  be  no  enemy  to  inward 
rest ;  as  outward  rest  may  well  stand  with  inward  un¬ 
quietness. 


IX. 

None  live  so  ill  but  they  content  themselves  in  some¬ 
what  :  even  the  beggar  likes  the  smell  of  his  dish.  It  is 
a  rare  evil  that  hath  not  something  to  sweeten  it,  either 
in  sense  or  in  hope — otherwise  men  would  grow  desper¬ 
ate,  mutinous,  envious  of  others,  weary  of  themselves. 
The  better  that  thing  is,  wherein  we  place  our  comfort, 
the  happier  we  live  ;  and  the  more  we  love  good  things, 
the  better  they  are  to  us.  The  worldling’s  comfort, 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


147 


though  it  be  good  to  him  because  he  loves  it,  yet  be¬ 
cause  it  is  not  absolutely  and  eternally  good,  it  fails 
him  :  wherein  the  Christian  hath  just  advantage  of  him  ; 
while  he  hath  all  the  same  causes  of  joy,  refined  and  ex¬ 
alted,  besides  more  and  higher  which  the  other  knows 
not  of.  The  worldling  laughs  more,  but  the  Christian 
is  more  delighted.  These  two  are  easily  severed. 
Thou  seest  a  goodly  picture,  or  an  heap  of  thy  gold : 
thou  laughest  not,  yet  thy  delight  is  more  than  in  a  jest 
that  shaketh  thy  spleen.  As  grief,  so  joy,  is  not  less 
when  it  is  least  expressed. 


X. 

I  have  seen  the  worst  natures  and  most  depraved 
minds,  not  affecting  all  sins :  but  still  some  they  have 
condemned  in  others  and  abhorred  in  themselves.  One 
exclaims  on  covetousness ;  yet  he  can  too  well  abide 
riotous  good-fellowship.  Another  inveighs  against 
drunkenness  and  excess,  not  caring  how  cruel  he  be  in 
usury  and  oppression.  One  cannot  endure  a  rough  and 
quarrelsome  disposition,  yet  gives  himself  over  to  unclean 
and  lascivious  courses.  Another  hates  all  wrongs,  save 
wrongs  to  God.  One  is  a  civil  atheist ;  another  a  re¬ 
ligious  usurer  ;  a  third  an  honest  drunkard ;  a  fourth  an 
unchaste  justicer ;  a  fifth  a  chaste  quarreler.  I  know  not 
whether  every  devil  excel  in  all  sins.  I  am  sure  some 
of  them  have  denomination  from  some  sins  more  special. 
Let  no  man  applaud  himself  for  those  sins  he  wanteth, 
but  condemn  himself  rather  for  that  sin  he  hath.  Thou 
censurest  another  man’s  sin,  he  thine ;  God  curseth 
both. 


148 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


XL 

Gold  is  the  heaviest  "of  all  metals.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  the  rich  man  is  usually  carried  downward  to  his  place. 
It  is  hard  for  the  soul,  clogged  with  many  weights  to  as¬ 
cend  to  heaven.  It  must  be  a  strong  and  nimble  soul, 
that  can  carry  up  itself  and  such  a  load ;  yet  Adam  and 
Noah  flew  up  thither,  with  the  double  monarchy  of  the 
world ;  the  patriarchs  with  much  wealth ;  many  holy 
kings  with  massy  crowns  and  sceptres.  The  burden  of 
covetous  desires,  is  more  heavy  to  an  empty  soul,  than 
much  treasure  to  the  full.  Our  affections  give  poise  or 
lightness  to  earthly  things.  Either  abate  of  thy  load 
if  thou  find  it  too  pressing — whether  by  having  less  or 
loving  less — or  add  to  thy  strength  and  activity,  that 
thou  mayest  yet  ascend.  It  is  more  commendable,  by 
how  much  more  hard,  to  climb  into  heaven  with  a  bur¬ 
den. 


XII. 

A  Christian  in  all  his  ways  must  have  three  guides — 
truth,  charity,  wisdom.  Truth,  to  go  before  him ;  cha¬ 
rity  and  wisdom,  on  either  hand.  If  any  of  the  three 
be  absent,  he  walks  amiss.  I  have  seen  some  do  hurt 
by  following  a  truth  uncharitably ;  and  others,  while 
they  would  salve  up  an  error  with  love,  have  failed  in 
their  wisdom,  and  offended  against  justice.  A  charita¬ 
ble  untruth,  and  an  uncharitable  truth,  and  an  unwise 
managing  of  truth  or  love,  are  all  to  be  carefully  avoid¬ 
ed  of  him  that  would  go  with  a  right  foot  in  the  narrow 
way. 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


149 


XIII. 

God  brought  man  forth  at  first,  not  into  a  wilderness, 
but  a  garden  ;  yet  then  he  expected  the  best  service  of 
him.  I  never  find  that  he  delights  in  the  misery,  but  in 
the  prosperity,  of  his  servants.  Cheerfulness  pleases 
him  better  than  a  dejected  and  dull  heaviness  of  heart. 
If  we  can  be  good  with  pleasure,  he  grudgeth  not  our 
joy  ;  if  not,  it  is  best  to  stint  ourselves  ;  not  for  that  these 
comforts  are  not  good,  but  because  our  hearts  are  evil ; 
faulting  not  their  nature,  but  our  use  and  corruption. 

'  XIV. 

The  homeliest  service  that  we  do  in  an  honest  calling, 
though  it  be  but  to  plough  or  dig,  if  done  in  obedience, 
and  conscience  of  God’s  commandment,  is  crowned  with 
an  ample  reward  ;  whereas  the  best  works  for  their  kind 
— preaching,  praying,  offering  evangelical  sacrifices — if 
without  respect  of  God’s  injunction  and  glory,  are  loaded 
with  curses.  God  loveth  adverbs  ;  and  cares  not  how 
good,  but  how  well. 


XV. 

The  golden  infancy  of  some  hath  proceeded  to  a  bra¬ 
zen  youth,  and  ended  in  a  leaden  age.  All  human  ma¬ 
turities  have  their  period;  only  grace  hath  none.  I 
durst  never  lay  too  much  hope  on  the  forward  beginnings 
of  wit  and  memory,  which  have  been  applauded  in  chil¬ 
dren.  I  knew  they  could  but  attain  their  vigor,  and  that 
if  sooner,  no  whit  the  better  ;  for  the  earlier  is  their  per¬ 
fection  of  wisdom,  the  longer  shall  be  their  witless  age. 
Seasonableness  is  the  best  in  all  these  things,  which  have 


/ 


150  HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 

their  ripeness  and  decay.  We  can  never  hope  too  much 
of  the  timely  blossoms  of  grace,  whose  spring  is  perpet¬ 
ual,  and  whose  harvest  begins  with  our  end. 

XVI. 

A  man  must  give  thanks  for  somewhat  which  he  may 
not  pray  for.  It  hath  been  said  of  courtiers,  that  they 
must  receive  injuries,  and  give  thanks.  God  cannot 
wrong  his,  but  he  will  cross  them.  Those  crosses  are 
beneficial.  All  benefits  challenge  thanks  ;  yet  I  have 
read,  that  God’s  children  have  with  condition  prayed 
against  them,  never  for  them.  In  good  things,  we  pray 
both  for  them  and  their  good  use  ;  in  evil,  for  their  good 
use,  not  themselves :  yet  we  must  give  thanks  for  both, 
for  there  is  no  evil  of  pain  which  God  doth  not ;  nothing 
that  God  doth,  is  not  good  ;  no  good  thing  but  is  worthy 
of  thanks. 

XVII. 

One  half  of  the  world  knows  not  how  the  other  lives ; 
and  therefore  the  better  sort  pity  not  the  distressed  ;  and 
the  miserable  envy  not  those  which  fare  better,  because 
they  know  it  not.  Each  man  judges  of  others’  condi¬ 
tions,  by  his  own.  The  worst  sort  would  be  too  much 
discontented,  if  they  saw  how  far  more  pleasant  the  life 
of  others  is.  And  if  the  better  sort — such  we  call  those 
which  are  greater — could  look  down  to  the  infinite  miser¬ 
ies  of  inferiors,  it  would  make  them  either  miserable  in 
compassion,  or  proud  in  conceit.  It  is  good,  sometimes, 
for  the  delicate  rich  man  to  look  into  the  poor  man’s 
cupboard ;  and  seeing  God  in  mercy  gives  him  not  to 
know  their  sorrow  by  experience,  to  know  it  yet  in  spec- 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


151 


ulation.  This  shall  teach  him  more  thanks  to  God, 
more  mercy  to  men,  more  contentment  in  himself. 

XVIII. 

Such  as  a  man’s  prayer  is  for  another,  it  shall  be  in 
his  extremity  for  himself :  for  though  he  love  himself 
more  than  others,  yet  his  apprehension  of  God  is  alike 
for  both.  Such  as  his  prayer  is  in  a  former  extremity, 
it  shall  be  also  in  death  :  this  way  we  may  have  experi¬ 
ence  even  of  a  thing  future.  If  God  have  been  far  off 
from  thee  in  a  fit  of  thy  ordinary  sickness,  fear  lest  he 
will  not  be  nearer  thee  in  thy  last.  What  differs  that 
from  this,  but  in  time  ?  Correct  thy  dullness  upon  for¬ 
mer  proofs  ;  or  else,  at  last,  thy  devotion  shall  want  life 
before  thy  body. 


XIX. 

Those  that  come  to  their  meat  as  to  a  medicine — as 
Augustine  reports  of  himself — live  in  an  austere  and 
Christian  temper,  and  shall  be  sure  not  to  joy  too  much 
in  the  creature,  nor  to  abuse  themselves.  Those  that 
come  to  their  medicine  as  to  meat,  shall  be  sure  to  live 
miserably  and  die  soon.  To  come  to  meat,  if  without  a 
gluttonous  appetite  and  palate,  is  allowed  to  Christians. 
To  come  to  meat  as  to  a  sacrifice  unto  the  belly,  is  a 
most  base  and  brutish  idolatry. 

XX. 

The  worst  that  ever  were — even  Cain  and  Judas — have 
had  some  fautors  that  have  honored  them  for  saints  ;  and 
the  serpent  that  beguiled  our  first  parents,  hath,  in  that 
name,  had  divine  honor  and  thanks.  Never  any  man 


152 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


trod  so  perilous  and  deep  steps,  but  some  have  followed 
and  admired  him.  Each  master  of  heresy  hath  found 
some  clients — even  he  that  taught  all  men’s  opinions 
were  true.  Again,  no  man  hath  been  so  exquisite  but 
some  have  detracted  from  him,  even  in  those  qualities 
which  have  seemed  most  worthy  of  wonder  to  others. 
A  man  shall  be  sure  to  be  backed  by  some,  either  in 
good  or  evil ;  and  by  some,  shouldered  in  both.  It  is 
good  for  a  man  not  to  stand  upon  his  abettors,  but  his 
quarrel ;  and  not  to  depend  upon  others,  but  himself. 

XXI. 

We  see  thousands  of  creatures  die  for  our  use,  and 
never  do  so  much  as  pity  them  : — why  do  we  think  much 
to  die  once  for  God  ?  They  are  not  ours  so  much  as  we 
are  his,  nor  our  pleasure  so  much  to  us  as  his  glory  to 
him.  Their  lives  are  lost  to  us  ;  ours,  but  changed  to 
liim. 


XXII. 

Much  ornament  is  no  good  sign — painting  of  the  face 
argues  an  ill  complexion  of  body,  a  worse  mind.  Truth 
hath  a  face  both  honest  and  comely,  and  looks  best  in 
her  own  colors.  But,  above  all,  divine  truth  is  most 
fair,  and  most  scorneth  to  borrow  beauty  of  man’s  wit 
or  tongue.  She  loveth  to  come  forth  in  her  native 
grace,  like  a  princely  matron  ;  and  counts  it  the  greatest 
indignity  to  be  dallied  with  as  a  wanton  strumpet :  she 
looks  to  command  reverence,  not  pleasure :  she  would 
be  kneeled  to,  not  laughed  at.  To  prank  her  up  in  vain 
dresses  and  fashions,  or  to  sport  with  her  in  a  light  and 
youthful  manner,  is  most  abhorring  from  her  nature. 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


153 


They  know  her  not,  that  give  her  such  entertainment ; 
and  shall  first  know  her  angry,  when  they  do  know  her. 
Again,  she  would  be  plain,  but  not  base,  not  sluttish.  She 
would  be  clad,  not  garishly,  yet  not  in  rags.  She  likes 
as  little  to  be  set  out  by  a  base  soil,  as  to  seem  credited 
with  gay  colors.  It  is  no  small  wisdom  to  know  her  just 
guise,  but  more  to  follow  it ;  and  so  to  keep  the  mean, 
that  while  we  please  her,  we  discontent  not  the  behold¬ 
ers. 


XXIII. 

In  worldly  carriage,  so  much  is  a  man  made  of,  as  he 
takes  upon  himself ;  but  such  is  God’s  blessing  upon 
true  humility,  that  it  still  procure th  reverence.  I  never 
saw  Christian  less  honored,  for  a  wise  neglect  of  himself. 
If  our  dejection  proceed  from  the  conscience  of  our  want, 
it  is  possible  we  should  be  as  little  esteemed  of  others  as 
of  ourselves  :  but  if  we  have  true  graces,  and  prize  them 
not  at  the  highest,  others  shall  value  both  them  in  us  and 
us  for  them,  and  with  usury  give  us  that  honor  we  with¬ 
held  modestly  from  ourselves. 

XXIV. 

He  that  takes  his  full  liberty  in  what  he  may,  shall 
repent  him — how  much  more,  in  what  he  should  not ! 
I  never  read  of  Christian  that  repented  him  of  too  little 
worldly  delight.  The  surest  course  I  have  still  found  in 
all  earthly  pleasures,  to  rise  with  an  appetite,  and  to  be 
satisfied  with  a  little. 

XXV. 

There  is  a  time  when  kings  go  not  forth  to  warfare. 


154 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


Our  spiritual  war  admits  no  intermission  :  it  knows  no 
night,  no  winter  ;  abides  no  peace,  no  truce.  This  calls 
us  not  into  a  garrison,  where  we  may  have  ease  and  res¬ 
pite,  but  into  pitched  fields  continually.  We  see  our 
enemies  in  the  face  always,  and  are  always  seen  and  as¬ 
saulted  ;  ever  resisting,  ever  defending — receiving  and 
returning  blows.  If  either  we  be  negligent  or  weary, 
we  die  :  what  other  hope  is  there,  while  one  fights  and 
the  other  stands  still  ?  We  can  never  have  safety  and 
peace,  but  in  victory.  Then  must  our  resistance  be 
courageous  and  constant,  where  both  yielding  is  death, 
and  all  treaties  of  peace,  mortal. 

XXVI. 

Neutrality  in  things  good  or  evil,  is  both  odious  and 
prejudicial ;  but  in  matters  of  an  indifferent  nature,  is 
safe  and  commendable.  Herein,  taking  of  parts  maketh 
sides,  and  breaketh  unity.  In  an  unjust  cause  of  sepa¬ 
ration,  he  that  favoreth  both  parts  may  perhaps  have 
least  love  of  either  side,  but  hath  most  charity  in  him¬ 
self. 


XXVII. 

Nothing  is  more  absurd  than  that  epicurean  resolution, 
i  Let  us  eat  and  drink ;  tomorrow  we  shall  die  ’ — as  if 
we  were  made  only  for  the  paunch,  and  lived  that  we 
might  live.  Yet  there  was  never  any  natural  man  that 
found  savor  in  that  meat  which  he  knew  would  be  his 

last :  whereas  they  should  say,  ‘  Let  us  fast  and  pray  ; 

* 

tomorrow  we  shall  die  ’ — for  to  what  purpose  is  the  body 
strengthened,  that  it  may  perish  ? — whose  greater 
strength  makes  our  death  more  violent.  No  man  be- 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


155 


stows  a  costly  roof  on  a  ruinous  tenement.  That  man’s 
end  is  easy  and  happy,  whom  death  finds  with  a  weak 
body  and  a  strong  soul. 


XXVIII. 

Sometime,  even  things  in  themselves  naturally  good, 
are  to  be  refused  for  those,  which,  being  evil,  may  be  an 
occasion  to  a  greater  good.  Life  is  in  itself  good,  and 
death  evil :  else  David,  Elias,  and  many  excellent  mar¬ 
tyrs  would  not  have  fled  to  hold  life  and  avoid  death ; 
nor  Hezekiah  have  prayed  for  it ;  nor  our  Saviour  have 
bidden  us  to  flee  for  it ;  nor  God  promised  it  to  his  for  a 
reward.  Yet  if,  in  some  cases,  we  hate  not  life,  we  love 
not  God  nor  our  souls.  Herein — as  much  as  in  any¬ 
thing — the  perverseness  of  our  nature  appears,  that  we 
wrish  death,  or  love  life  upon  wrong  causes.  We  would 
live  for  pleasure,  or  we  wTould  die  for  pain  : — Job  for  his 
sores,  Elias  for  his  persecution,  Jonah  for  his  gourd, 
wrould  presently  die,  and  will  needs  out-face  God  that  it 
is  better  for  him  to  die  than  to  live  : — wherein  we  are 
like  to  garrison-soldiers,  that,  while  they  live  within  safe 
walls  and  show  themselves  once  a  day,  rather  for  cere¬ 
mony  and  pomp  than  need  or  danger,  like  warfare  well 
enough  ;  but  if  once  called  forth  to  the  field,  they  wish 
themselves  at  home. 


XXIX. 

Not  only  the  least,  but  the  worst,  is  ever  in  the  bot¬ 
tom.  What  should  God  do  with  the  dregs  of  our  age  ? 
When  sin  will  admit  thee  his  client  no  longer,  then  God 
shall  be  beholden  to  thee  for  thy  service.  Thus  is  God 
dealt  with  in  all  other  offerings : — the  worst  and  least 


156 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


sheaf  must  be  God’s  tenth ;  the  deformedst  or  simplest 
of  our  children  must  be  God’s  ministers  ;  the  uncleanli- 
est  and  most  careless  house  must  be  God’s  temple ;  the 
idlest  and  sleepiest  hours  of  the  day  must  be  reserved 
for  our  prayers  ;  the  worst  part  of  our  age,  for  devotion. 
We  would  have  God  give  us  still  of  the  best ;  and  are 
ready  to  murmur  at  every  little  evil  he  sends  us — yet 
nothing  is  bad  enough  for  him  of  whom  we  receive  all. 
Nature  condemns  this  inequality,  and  tells  us  that  he 
which  is  the  Author  of  good,  should  have  the  best,  and 
he  which  gives  all,  should  have  his  choice. 

XXX. 

When  we  go  about  an  evil  business,  it  is  strange  how 
ready  the  devil  is  to  set  us  forward  ;  how  careful  that 
we  should  want  no  furtherances.  So  that  if  a  man 
would  be  lewdly  witty,  he  shall  be  sure  to  be  furnished 
with  a  store  of  profane  jests,  wherein  a  loose  heart  hath 
double  advantage  of  the  conscionable.  If  he  would  be 
voluptuous,  he  shall  want  neither  objects  nor  opportuni¬ 
ties.  The  current  passage  of  ill  enterprises  is  so  far  from 
giving  cause  of  encouragement,  that  it  should  justly 
fright  a  man  to  look  back  to  the  author ;  and  to  consider 
that  he  therefore  goes  fast,  because  the  devil  drives 
him. 


XXXI. 

In  the  choice  of  companions  for  our  conversation,  it  is 
good  dealing  with  men  of  good  natures  ;  for  though  grace 
exerciseth  her  power  in  bridling  nature,  yet — sith  we 
are  still  men,  at  the  best — some  swing  she  will  have  in 
the  most  mortified.  Austerity,  sullenness,  or  strange- 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


157 


ness  of  disposition,  and  whatsoever  qualities  may  make 
a  man  unsociable,  cleave  faster  to  our  nature,  than  those 
which  are  morally  evil.  True  Christian  love  may  be 
separated  from  acquaintance,  and  acquaintance  from  en¬ 
tireness.  These  are  not  qualities  to  hinder  our  love, 
but  our  familiarity. 

XXXII. 

Ignorance,  as  it  makes  bold — intruding  men  carelessly 
into  unknown  dangers — so  also  it  makes  men  ofttimes 
causelessly  fearful.  Herod  feared  Christ’s  coming,  be¬ 
cause  he  mistook  it.  If  that  tyrant  had  known  the  man¬ 
ner  of  His  spiritual  regiment,  he  had  spared  both  his 
own  fright  and  the  blood  of  other.  And  hence  it  is  that 
we  fear  death — because  we  are  not  acquainted  with  the 
virtue  of  it.  Nothing  but  innocency  and  knowledge  can 
give  sound  confidence  to  the  heart. 

XXXIII. 

Where  are  divers  opinions,  they  may  be  all  false ; 
there  can  be  but  one  true  :  and  that  one  truth  ofttimes 
must  be  fetched  by  piece-meal  out  of  divers  branches  of 
contrary  opinions.  For  it  falls  out  not  seldom  that  truth 
is,  through  ignorance  or  rash  vehemency,  scattered  into 
sundry  parts  ;  and  like  to  a  little  silver  melted  amongst 
the  ruins  of  a  burnt  house,  must  be  tried  out  from  heaps 
of  much  superfluous  ashes.  There  is  much  pains  in  the 
search  of  it ;  much  skill  in  finding  it :  the  value  of  it 
once  found,  requites  the  cost  of  both. 

XXXIV. 

Affectation  of  superfluity,  is  in  all  things  a  sign  of 


158 


HOLT  OBSERVATIONS. 


weakness  : — as  in  words,  he  that  useth  circumlocutions 
to  express  himself  shows  want  of  memory  and  want  of 
proper  speech  ;  and  much  talk  argues  a  brain  feeble  and 
distempered.  What  good  can  any  earthly  thing  yield 
us,  besides  his  use  ?  And  what  is  it  but  vanity,  to  affect 
that  which  doth  us  no  good  ?  And  what  use  is  it  in  that 
which  is  superfluous  ?  It  is  a  great  skill  to  know  what 
is  enough,  and  great  wisdom  to  care  for  no  more. 

XXXV. 

Good  things  which  in  absence  were  desired,  now  of¬ 
fering  themselves  to  our  presence,  are  scarce  entertain¬ 
ed  ;  or  at  least  not  with  our  purposed  cheerfulness. 
Christ’s  coming  to  us,  and  our  going  to  him,  are  in  our 
profession  well  esteemed,  much  wished.  But  when  he 
singleth  us  out  by  a  direct  message  of  death,  or  by  some 
fearful  sign  giveth  likelihood  of  a  present  return,  we  are 
as  much  affected  with  fear,  as  before  with  desire.  All 
changes,  although  to  the  better,  are  troublesome  for  the 
time,  until  our  settling.  There  is  no  remedy  hereof,  but 
inward  prevention ;  our  mind  must  change  before  our 
estate  be  changed. 


XXXVI. 

Those  are  greatest  enemies  to  religion,  that  are  not 
most  irreligious.  Atheists,  though  in  themselves  they 
be  the  worst,  yet  are  seldom  found  hot  persecutors  of 
others ;  whereas  those  which  in  some  one  fundamental 
point  be  heretical,  are  commonly  most  violent  in  opposi¬ 
tions.  One  hurts  by  secret  infection,  the  other  by  open 
resistance.  One  is  careless  of  all  truth ;  the  other,  ve- 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


159 


hement  for  some  untruth.  An  atheist  is  worthy  of  more 
hatred ;  an  heretic,  of  more  fear  :  both,  of  avoidance. 

XXXVII. 

Ways,  if  never  used,  cannot  but  be  fair :  if  much 
used,  are  made  commodiously  passable.  If  before  oft 
used,  and  now  seldom,  they  become  deep  and  dangerous. 
If  the  heart  be  not  at  all  inured  to  meditation,  it  findeth 
no  fault  with  itself : — not  for  that  it  is  innocent,  but  se¬ 
cure.  If  often,  it  findeth  comfortable  passage  for  his 
thoughts :  if  rarely,  and  with  intermission,  tedious  and 
troublesome.  In  things  of  this  nature,  we  only  escape 
complaint,  if  we  use  them  either  always  or  never. 

XXXVIII. 

Our  sensual  hand  holds  fast  whatsoever  delight  it  ap- 
prehendeth ;  our  spiritual  hand  easily  remitteth ;  because 
appetite  is  stronger  in  us  than  grace  :  whence  it  is  that 
we  so  hardly  deliver  ourselves  of  earthly  pleasures  which 
we  have  once  entertained,  and  with  such  difficulty  draw 
ourselves  to  a  constant  course  of  faith,  hope,  and  spiritu¬ 
al  joy,  or  to  the  renewed  acts  of  them,  once  intermitted. 
Age  is  naturally  weak,  and  youth  vigorous ;  but  in  us 
the  old  man  is  strong  ;  the  new,  faint  and  feeble.  The 
fault  is  not  in  grace,  but  in  us.  Faith  doth  not  want 
strength,  but  we  want  faith. 

XXXIX. 

It  is  not  good  in  worldly  estates,  for  a  man  to  make 
himself  necessary ;  for  hereupon  he  is  both  more  toiled 
and  more  suspected.  But  in  the  sacred  commonwealth 
of  the  church,  a  man  cannot  be  engaged  too  deeply  by 


160 


HOLT  OBSERVATIONS. 


The  ambition  of  spiritual  well-doing,  breeds 
He  that  doth  best,  and  may  worst  be  spared, 

XL. 

It  was  a  fit  comparison  of  worldly  cares,  to  thorns ; 
for  as  they  choke  the  word,  so  they  prick  our  souls : 
neither  the  word  can  grow  up  amongst  them,  nor  the 
heart  can  rest  upon  them :  neither  body  nor  soul  can 
find  ease  while  they  are  within  or  close  to  us.  Spiritual 
cares  are  as  sharp,  but  more  profitable :  they  pain  us, 
but  leave  the  soul  better.  They  break  our  sleep,  but 
for  a  sweeter  rest.  We  are  not  well,  but  either  while 
we  have  them,  or  after  we  have  had  them.  It  is  as  im¬ 
possible  to  have  spiritual  health  without  these,  as  to  have 
bodily  strength  without  the  other. 

XLI. 

In  temporal  good  things,  it  is  best  to  live  in  doubt ; 
not  making  full  account  of  that  which  we  hold  in  so  weak 
a  tenure  :  in  spiritual,  with  confidence ;  not  fearing  that 
which  is  warranted  to  us  by  an  infallible  promise  and 
sure  earnest.  He  lives  more  contentedly,  that  is  most 
secure  for  this  world,  most  resolute  for  the  other. 

XLII. 

God  hath  in  nature  given  every  man  inclinations  to 
some  one  particular  calling;  which  if  he  follow,  he  ex¬ 
cels  ;  if  he  cross,  he  proves  a  non-proficient  and  change¬ 
able.  But  all  men’s  natures  are  equally  indisposed  to 
grace,  and  to  the  common  vocation  of  Christianity :  we 
are  all  born  heathens.  To  do  well,  nature  must  in  the 


his  service, 
no  danger, 
is  happiest. 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


161 


first,  be  observed  and  followed  ;  in  the  other,  crossed  and 
overcome. 


XLIII. 

Good-man  is  a  title  given  to  the  lowest ;  whereas  all 
titles  of  greatness,  worship,  honor,  are  observed  and  at¬ 
tributed  with  choice.  The  speech  of  the  world  bewrays 
their  mind,  and  shows  the  common  estimation  of  good¬ 
ness,  compared  with  other  qualities.  The  world  there¬ 
fore  is  an  ill  herald,  and  unskillful  in  the  true  styles.  It 
were  happy  that  goodness  were  so  common  ;  and  pity 
that  it  either  should  not  stand  with  greatness,  or  not  be 
preferred  to  it. 

XLIV. 

Amongst  all  actions,  Satan  is  ever  busiest  in  the 
best,  and  most  in  the  best  part  of  the  best — as  in  the  end 
of  prayer,  when  the  heart  should  close  up  itself  with  most 
comfort.  He  never  fears  us  but  when  we  are  well  em- 
ployed  ;  and  the  more  likelihood  he  sees  of  our  profit, 
the  more  is  his  envy  and  labor  to  distract  us.  We  should 
love  ourselves  as  much  as  he  hates  us  ;  and  therefore 
strive  so  much  the  more  towards  our  good,  as  his  malice 
striveth  to  interrupt  it.  We  do  nothing,  if  we  contend 
not  when  we  are  resisted.  The  good  soul  is  ever  in 
contradiction  ;  denying  what  is  granted,  and  contending 
for  that  which  is  denied  ;  suspecting  when  it  is  gainsay- 
ed,  and  fearing  liberty. 


XLV. 

God  forewarns  ere  he  try,  because  he  would  be  pre¬ 
vented.  Satan  steals  upon  us  suddenly,  by  temptations, 

11 


162 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


because  he  would  foil  us.  If  we  relent  not  upon  God’s 
premonition,  and  meet  not  the  lingering  pass  of  his  pun¬ 
ishments  to  forestall  them,  he  punisheth  more,  by  how 
much  his  warning  was  more  evident  and  more  large. 
God’s  trials  must  be  met  when  they  come.  Satan’s  must 
be  seen  before  they  come  ;  and  if  we  be  not  armed  ere 
we  be  assaulted,  we  shall  be  foiled  ere  we  can  be  armed. 

XL  VI. 

It  is  not  good  to  be  continual  in  denunciation  of  judg¬ 
ment.  The  noise  to  which  we  are  accustomed,  though 
loud,  wakes  us  not;  whereas  a  less,  if  unusual,  stirreth 
us.  The  next  way  to  make  threatenings  contemned,  is 
to  make  them  common.  It  is  a  profitable  rod  that  strikes 
sparingly,  and  frights  somewhat  oftener  than  it  smiteth. 

XLVII. 

Want  of  use  causeth  disability ;  and  custom,  perfec¬ 
tion.  Those  that  have  not  used  to  pray  in  their  closet, 
cannot  pray  in  public,  but  coldly  and  in  form.  He  that 
discontinues  meditation,  shall  be  long  in  recovering  ; 
whereas  the  man  inured  to  these  exercises — who  is  not 
dressed  till  he  have  prayed,  nor  have  supped  till  he  have 
meditated — doth  both  these  well,  and  with  ease.  He 
that  intermits  good  duties,  incurs  a  double  loss  : — of  the 
blessing  that  followeth  good ;  of  the  faculty  of  doing  it. 

XL  VIII. 

Christianity  is  both  an  easy  yoke,  and  an  hard ;  hard 
to  take  up,  easy  to  bear  when  once  taken.  The  heart 
requires  much  labor,  ere  it  can  be  induced  to  stoop  un¬ 
der  it :  and  finds  as  much  contentment,  when  it  hath 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


163 


stooped.  The  worldling  thinks  religion  servility  ;  but 
the  Christian  knows  whose  slave  he  was,  till  he  entered 
into  this  service,  and  that  no  bondage  can  be  so  evil,  as 
freedom  from  these  bonds. 

XLIX. 

It  is  a  wonder  how  full  of  shifts  nature  is;  ready  to 
turn  over  all  good  purposes.  If  we  think  of  death,  she 
suggests  secretly,  (  Tush,  it  shall  not  come  yet.’  If  of 
judgment  for  sin,  i  This  concerns  not  thee  ;  it  shall 
not  come  at  all.’  If  of  heaven,  and  our  labor  to  reach  it, 

6  Trouble  not  thyself ;  it  will  come  soon  enough  alone.’ 
Address  thyself  to  pray  :  ( It  is  yet  unseasonable ;  stay  for 
a  better  opportunity.’  To  give  alms  :  1  Thou  knowest 
not  thine  own  future  wants.’  To  reprove  :  ‘  What  needest 
thou  thrust  thyself  into  willful  hatred  ?’  Every  good  action 
hath  his  let.  He  can  never  be  good,  that  is  not  resolute. 

L. 

All  arts  are  maids  to  Divinity ;  therefore  they  both 
veil  to  her,  and  do  her  service ;  and  she,  like  a  grave 
mistress,  controls  them  at  pleasure.  Natural  philosophy 
teacheth  that  of  nothing  can  be  nothing  made  ;  and  that 
from  the  privation  to  the  habit,  is  no  return.  Divinity 
takes  her  up  for  these,  and,  upon  supernatural  principles, 
teaches  her  a  creation,  a  resurrection.  Philosophy  teach¬ 
es  us  to  follow  sense  as  an  infallible  guide.  Divinity 
tells  her  that  faith  is  of  things  not  seen.  Logic  teaches 
us  first  to  discourse,  then  to  resolve  :  Divinity  to  assent 
without  arguing.  Civil  law  teacheth  that  long  custom 
prescribeth  :  Divinity,  that  old  things  are  passed.  Mo¬ 
ral  philosophy,  that  tallying  of  injuries  is  justice  ;  Divin- 


164 


HOLT  OBSERVATIONS. 


ity,  that  good  must  be  returned  for  ill.  Policy,  that  bet¬ 
ter  is  a  mischief  than  an  inconvenience:  Divinity,  that 
we  may  not  do  evil  that  good  may  ensue.  The  school 
is  well  ordered,  while  Divinity  keeps  the  chair  ;  but  if 
any  other  skill  usurp  it,  and  check  their  mistress,  there 
can  follow  nothing  but  confusion  and  atheism. 


LI. 

Much  difference  is  to  be  made  betwixt  a  revolter  and 
a  man  trained  up  in  error.  A  Jew  and  an  Arian 
both  deny  Christ’s  deity ;  yet  this  opinion  is  not  in  both 
punished  with  bodily  death.  Yea,  a  revolt  to  a  less  er¬ 
ror,  is  more  punishable  than  education  in  a  capital  here¬ 
sy.  Errors  of  judgment,  though  less  regarded  than  er¬ 
rors  of  practice,  yet  are  more  pernicious :  but  none  so 
deadly  as  theirs,  that  were  once  in  the  truth.  If  truth 
be  not  sued  to,  it  is  dangerous  ;  but  if  forsaken,  despe¬ 
rate. 

Ln. 

it  is  an  ill  argument  of  a  good  action  not  well  done, 
when  we  are  glad  that  it  is  done.  To  be  affected  with 
the  comfort  of  the  conscience  of  well  performing  it,  is 
good :  but  merely  to  rejoice  that  the  act  is  over,  is  car¬ 
nal.  He  never  can  begin  cheerfully,  that  is  glad  he 
hath  ended. 

LIII. 

He  that  doth  not  secret  service  to  God  with  some  de¬ 
light,  doth  but  counterfeit  in  public.  The  truth  of  any 
act  or  passion  is  then  best  tried,  when  it  is  without  wit¬ 
ness.  Openly,  many  sinister  respects  may  draw  from 
us  a  form  of  religious  duties: — secretly,  nothing  but 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


165 


the  power  of  a  good  conscience.  It  is  to  be  feared  God 
hath  more  true  and  devout  service  in  closets  than  in 
churches. 

LIV. 

Words  and  diseases  grow  upon  us  with  years.  In 
age,  we  talk  much,  because  we  have  seen  much,  and 
soon  after  shall  cease  talking  forever.  We  are  most 
diseased,  because  nature  is  weakest,  and  death — which 
is  near — must  have  harbingers.  Such  is  the  old  age  of 
the  world.  No  marvel  if  this  last  time  be  full  of  writing 
and  weak  discourse  ;  full  of  sects  and  heresies,  which  are 
the  sicknesses  of  this  great  and  decayed  body. 

LV. 

The  best  ground,  untilled,  soonest  runs  out  into  rank 
weeds.  Such  are  God’s  children — overgrown  with  se¬ 
curity  ere  they  are  aware,  unless  they  be  well  exercised 
both  with  God’s  plow  of  affliction,  and  their  own  indus¬ 
try  in  meditation.  A  man  of  knowledge,  that  is  either 
negligent  or  uncorrected,  cannot  but  grow  wild  and  god¬ 
less. 

LVI. 

With  us,  vilest  things  are  most  common ;  but  with 
God,  the  best  things  are  most  frequently  given.  Grace, 
which  is  the  noblest  of  all  God’s  favors,  is  unpartially 
bestowed  upon  all  willing  receivers ;  whereas  nobility 
of  blood,  and  height  of  place, — blessings  of  an  inferior 
nature, — are  reserved  for  few.  Herein  the  Christian 
follows  his  Father: — his  prayers,  which  are  his  richest 


166 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


portion,  he  communicates  to  all ;  his  substance,  accord¬ 
ing  to  his  ability,  to  few. 

LVII. 

God  therefore  gives,  because  he  hath  given  ;  making 
his  former  favors  arguments  for  more.  Man  therefore 
shuts  his  hand,  because  he  hath  opened  it.  There  is  no 
such  way  to  procure  more  from  God,  as  to  urge  him  with 
what  he  hath  done.  All  God’s  blessings  are  profitable 
and  excellent ;  not  so  much  in  themselves,  as  that  they 
are  inducements  to  greater. 

LVIII. 

God’s  immediate  actions  are  best  at  first.  The  frame 
of  this  creation,  how  exquisite  was  it  under  his  hand  ! — 
afterward,  blemished  by  our  sin.  Man’s  endeavors  are 
weak  in  their  beginnings,  and  perfecter  by  degrees.  No 
science,  no  device,  hath  ever  been  perfect  in  his  cradle, 
or  at  once  hath  seen  his  birth  and  maturity.  Of  the 
same  nature  are  those  actions  which  God  worketh  me¬ 
diately  by  us,  according  to  our  measure  of  receipt.  The 
cause  of  both  is,  on  the  one  side,  the  infinite  ness  of  his 
wisdom  and  power,  which  cannot  be  corrected  by  any 
second  assays ;  on  the  other,  our  weakness,  helping  it¬ 
self  by  former  grounds  and  trials.  He  is  an  happy  man 
that  detracts  nothing  from  God’s  works,  and  adds  most 
to  his  own. 


LIX. 

The  old  saying  is  more  common  than  true, — that 
those  which  are  in  hell,  know  no  other  heaven  :  for  this 
makes  the  damned  perfectly  miserable,  that  out  of  their 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


167 


own  torment  they  see  the  felicity  of  the  saints,  together 
with  their  impossibility  of  attaining  it.  Sight,  without 
hope  of  fruition,  is  a  torment  alone.  Those  that  here 
might  see  God  and  will  not,  or  do  see  him  obscurely  and 
love  him  not,  shall  once  see  him  with  anguish  of  soul, 
and  not  enjoy  him. 


LXX. 

Sometimes  evil  speeches  come  from  good  men,  in' 
their  unadvisedness ;  and  sometimes  even  the  good 
speeches  of  men  may  proceed  from  an  ill  spirit.  No 
confession  could  be  better  than  Satan  gave  of  Christ.  It 
is  not  enough  to  consider  what  is  spoken,  or  by  whom  ; 
but  whence,  and  for  what.  The  spirit  is  often-times 
tried  by  the  speech  ;  but  other  times  the  speech  must  be 
examined  by  the  spirit;  and  the  spirit  by  the  rule  of  an 
higher  word. 

LXI. 

Greatness  puts  high  thoughts  and  big  words  into  a 
man  ;  whereas  the  dejected  mind  takes  carelessly  what 
offers  itself.  Every  worldling  is  base-minded,  and  there¬ 
fore  his  thoughts  creep  still  low  upon  the  earth.  The 
Christian  both  is,  and  knows  himself  truly  great ;  and 
therefore  mindeth  and  speaketh  of  spiritual,  immortal, 
glorious,  heavenly  things.  So  much  as  the  soul  stoop- 
eth  unto  earthly  thoughts,  so  much  is  it  unregenerate. 

LXII. 

Long  acquaintance,  as  it  maketh  those  things  which 
are  evil  to  seem  less  evil,  so  it  makes  good  things  which 
at  first  were  unpleasant,  delightful.  There  is  no  evil 


168 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


of  pain,  nor  no  moral  good  action,  which  is  not  harsh 
at  the  first.  Continuance  of  evil,  which  might  seem  to 
weary  us,  is  the  remedy  and  abatement  of  weariness ; 
and  the  practice  of  good,  as  it  profiteth,  so  it  pleaseth. 
He  that  is  a  stranger  to  good  and  evil,  finds  both  of  them 
troublesome.  God  therefore  doth  well  for  us,  while  he 
exerciseth  us  with  long  afflictions ;  and  we  do  well  to 
ourselves,  while  we  continually  busy  ourselves  in  good 
exercises. 


LXIJI. 

Sometimes  it  is  well  taken  by  men,  that  we  humble 
ourselves  lower  than  there  is  cause.  ‘  Thy  servant  Ja¬ 
cob/  saith  that  good  patriarch  to  his  brother,  to  his  infe¬ 
rior.  And  no  less  well  doth  God  take  these  submiss 
extenuations  of  ourselves  :  ‘  I  am  a  worm,  and  no  man ; 
surely  I  am  more  foolish  than  a  man,  and  have  not  the 
understanding  of  a  man  in  me.’  But  I  never  find  that 
any  man  bragged  to  God,  although  in  a  matter  of  truth, 
and  within  the  compass  of  his  desert,  and  was  accepted. 
A  man  may  be  too  lowly  in  his  dealing  with  men,  even 
unto  contempt.  With  God,  he  cannot ;  but  the  lower 
he  falleth,  the  higher  is  his  exaltation. 

LXIV. 

The  soul  is  fed  as  the  body,  starved  with  hunger  as 
the  body,  requires  proportionable  diet  and  necessary  va¬ 
riety  as  the  body.  All  ages  and  statures  of  the  soul 
bear  not  the  same  nourishment.  There  is  milk  for 
spiritual  infants,  strong  meat  for  the  grown  Christian. 
The  spoon  is  fit  for  one,  the  knife  for  the  other.  The 
best  Christian  is  not  so  grown  that  he  need  to  scorn 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


169 


the  spoon ;  but  the  weak  Christian  may  find  a  strong 
feed  dangerous.  How  many  have  been  cast  away  with 
spiritual  surfeits,  because,  being  but  new  born,  they 
have  swallowed  down  big  morsels  of  the  highest  myste¬ 
ries  of  godliness — which  they  never  could  digest — but 
together  with  them,  have  cast  up  their  proper  nourish¬ 
ment.  A  man  must  first  know  the  power  of  his  stomach, 
ere  he  know  how  with  safety  and  profit  to  frequent 
God’s  ordinary. 

LXV. 

It  is  very  hard  for  the  best  man  in  a  sudden  extremity 
of  death,  to  satisfy  himself  in  apprehending  his  stay,  and 
reposing  his  heart  upon  it ;  for  the  soul  is  so  oppressed 
with  sudden  terror,  that  it  cannot  well  command  itself 
till  it  have  digested  an  evil.  It  were  miserable  for  the 
best  Christian,  if  all  his  former  prayers  and  meditations 
did  not  serve  to  aid  him  in  his  last  straits,  and  meet 
together  in  the  centre  of  his  extremity  ;  yielding,  though 
not  sensible  relief,  yet  secret  benefit  to  the  soul:  where¬ 
as  the  worldly  man  in  this  case,  having  not  laid  up  for 
this  hour,  hath  no  comfort  from  God,  or  from  others,  or 
from  himself. 


LXVI. 

All  external  good  or  evil  is  measured  by  sense  ;  neither 
can  we  account  that  either  good  or  ill,  which  doth  nei¬ 
ther  actually  avail  nor  hurt  us.  Spiritually,  this  rule 
holds  not.  All  our  best  good  is  insensible  ;  for  all  our 
future — which  is  the  greatest  good — we  hold  only  in 
hope,  and  the  present  favor  of  God  we  have  many 
times,  and  feel  not.  The  stomach  finds  the  best  diges- 


170 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


tion  even  in  sleep,  when  we  least  perceive  it ;  and  whiles 
we  are  most  awake,  this  power  worketh  in  us,  either  to 
further  strength  or  disease,  without  our  knowledge  of 
what  is  done  within.  And,  on  the  other  side,  that  man 
is  most  dangerously  sick,  in  whom  nature  decays  with¬ 
out  his  feeling,  without  complaint.  To  know  ourselves 
happy,  is  good ;  but  woe  were  to  us  Christians,  if  we 
could  not  be  happy  and  know  it  not. 

LXVII. 

There  are  none  that  ever  did  so  much  mischief  to  the 
church,  as  those  that  have  been  excellent  in  wit  and 
learning.  Others  may  be  spiteful  enough,  but  want 
power  to  accomplish  their  malice.  An  enemy  that 
hath  both  strength  and  craft  is  worthy  to  be  feared. 
None  can  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost,  but  those  which 
have  had  former  illumination.  Tell  not  me  what  parts 
a  man  hath,  but  what  grace  ;  honest  sottishness  is  bet¬ 
ter  than  profane  eminence. 

LXVIII. 

The  entertainment  of  all  spiritual  events  must  be  with 
fear  or  hope  ;  but  of  all  earthly  extremities,.  must  be 
with  contempt  or  derision.  For  what  is  terrible,  is  wor¬ 
thy  of  a  Christian’s  contempt ;  what  is  pleasant,  to  be 
turned  over  with  a  scorn.  The  mean  requires  a  mean 
affection  betwixt  love  and  hatred.  We  may  not  love 
them,  because  of  their  vanity  ;  we  may  not  hate  them, 
because  of  their  necessary  use.  It  is  an  hard  thing  to 
be  a  wise  host,  and  to  fit  our  entertainment  to  all  com¬ 
ers  ;  which  if  it  be  not  done,  the  soul  is  soon  wasted 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


171 


either  for  want  of  customers,  or  for  the  misrule  of  ill 
guests. 

LXIX. 

God  and  man  build  in  a  contrary  order.  Man  lays 
the  foundation  first,  then  adds  the  walls,  the  roof  last. 
God  began  the  roof  first,  spreading  out  this  vault  of  hea¬ 
ven,  ere  he  laid  the  base  of  the  earth.  Our  thoughts 
must  follow  the  order  of  his  workmanship.  Heaven 
must  be  minded  first — earth  afterward ;  and  so  much 
more,  as  it  is  seen  more.  Our  meditation  must  herein 
follow  our  sense.  A  few  miles  give  bounds  to  our  view 
of  earth,  whereas  we  may  near  see  half  the  heaven  at 
once.  He  that  thinks  most  both  of  that  which  is  most 
seen  and  of  that  which  is  not  seen  at  all,  is  happiest. 

LXX. 

I  have  ever  noted  it  a  true  sign  of  a  false  heart,  to  be 
scrupulous  and  nice  in  small  matters,  negligent  in  the 
main ;  whereas  the  good  soul  is  still  curious  in  substan¬ 
tial  points,  and  not  careless  in  things  of  an  inferior  na¬ 
ture  ;  accounting  no  duty  so  small  as  to  be  neglected, 
and  no  care  great  enough  for  principal  duties  ;  not  so 
tithing  mint  and  cummin,  that  he  should  forget  justice 
and  judgment,  nor  yet  so  regarding  judgment  and  jus¬ 
tice,  that  he  should  contemn  mint  and  cummin.  He 
that  thus  misplaces  his  conscience,  will  be  found  either 
hypocritical  or  superstitious. 

LXXI. 

It  argues  the  world  full  of  atheists,  that  those  offences 
which  may  impeach  human  society,  are  entertained  with 


172 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


an  answerable  hatred  and  rigor  :  those  which  do  imme¬ 
diately  wrong  the  supreme  majesty  of  God,  are  turned 
over  with  scarce  so  much  as  dislike.  If  we  conversed 
with  God  as  we  do  with  men,  his  right  would  be  at  least 
as  precious  to  us  as  our  own.  All  that  converse  not 
with  God,  are  without  God ;  not  only  those  that  are 
against  God,  but  those  that  are  without  God,  are  athe¬ 
ists.  We  may  be  too  charitable  : — I  fear  not  to  say 
that  these  our  last  times  abound  with  honest  atheists. 

LXX1I. 

The  best  thing,  corrupted,  is  worst.  An  ill  man  is 
the  worst  of  all  creatures  ;  an  ill  Christian,  the  worst  of 
all  men  ;  an  ill  professor,  the  worst  of  all  Christians  ;  an 
ill  minister,  the  worst  of  all  professors. 

LXXIII. 

Naturally,  life  is  before  death,  and  death  is  only  a 
privation  of  life.  Spiritually,  it  is  contrary.  As  Paul 
saith  of  the  grain,  so  may  we  of  man  in  the  business  of 
regeneration — he  must  die  before  he  can  live.  Yet  this 
death  presupposes  a  life  that  was  once,  and  should  be. 
God  chooses  to  have  the  difficultest  first ;  we  must  be 
content  with  the  pain  of  dying,  ere  we  feel  the  comfort 
of  life.  As  we  die  to  nature,  ere  we  live  in  glory,  so 
we  must  die  to  sin,  ere  we  can  live  to  grace. 

LXXIV. 

Death  did  not  first  strike  Adam,  the  first  sinful  man  ; 
nor  Cain,  the  first  hypocrite ;  but  Abel,  the  innocent 
and  righteous.  The  first  soul  that  met  with  death, 
overcame  death ;  the  first  soul  that  parted  from  earth, 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


173 


went  to  heaven.  Death  argues  not  displeasure ;  because 
he  whom  God  loved  best,  dies  first ;  and  the  murderer 
is  punished  with  living. 

LXXV. 

The  lives  of  most  are  misspent  only  for  want  of  a  cer¬ 
tain  end  of  their  actions  ;  wherein  they  do  as  unwise  arch¬ 
ers — shoot  away  their  arrows,  they  know  not  at  what 
mark.  They  live  only  out  of  the  present,  not  directing 
themselves  and  their  proceedings  to  one  universal  scope  ; 
whence  they  alter  upon  all  change  of  occasions,  and 
never  reach  any  perfection  ;  neither  can  do  other  but 
continue  in  uncertainty,  and  end  in  discomfort.  Others 
aim  at  one  certain  mark,  but  a  wrong  one.  Some — 
though  fewer — level  at  the  right  end,  but  amiss.  To 
live  without  one  main  and  common  end,  is  idleness  and 
folly.  To  live  to  a  false  end,  is  deceit  and  loss.  True 
Christian  wisdom  both  shows  the  end,  and  finds  the  way  ; 
and  as  cunning  politics  have  many  plots  to  compass  one 
and  the  same  design  by  a  determined  succession,  so  the 
wise  Christian,  failing  in  the  means,  yet  still  fetcheth 
about  to  his  steady  end,  with  a  constant  change  of  en¬ 
deavors.  Such  one  only  lives  to  purpose,  and  at  last 
repents  not  that  he  hath  lived. 

LXXVI. 

The  shipwreck  of  a  good  conscience,  is  the  casting 
away  of  all  other  excellencies.  It  is  no  rare  thing  to 
note  the  soul  of  a  willful  sinner  stripped  of  all  her  graces, 
and  by  degrees  exposed  to  shame.  So  those  whom  we 
have  known  admired,  have  fallen  to  be  level  with  their 
fellows  ;  and  from  thence  beneath  them,  to  a  mediocrity  ; 


174 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


and  afterwards  to  sottishness  and  contempt,  below  the 
vulgar.  Since  they  have  cast  away  the  best,  it  is  just 
with  God  to  take  away  the  worst ;  and  to  cast  off*  them 
in  lesser  regards,  which  have  rejected  him  in  greater. 

LX  XVII. 

It  hath  ever  been  counted  more  noble  and  successful 
to  set  upon  an  open  enemy  in  his  own  home,  than  to 
expect  till  he  set  upon  us,  whiles  we  make  only  a  de¬ 
fensive  war.  This  rule  serves  us  for  our  last  enemy, 
death ;  whence  that  old  demand  of  Epicure  is  easily  an¬ 
swered,  ‘  Whether  it  be  better  death  should  come  to  us, 
or  that  we  should  meet  him  in  the  way ;  meet  him  in 
our  minds,  ere  he  seize  upon  our  bodies  ?’  Our  coward¬ 
liness,  our  unpreparation,  is  his  advantage  ;  whereas  true 
boldness  in  confronting  him,  dismays  and  weakens  his 
forces.  Happy  is  that  soul,  that  can  send  out  the  scouts 
of  his  thoughts  beforehand,  to  discover  the  power  of 
death  afar  off ;  and  then  can  resolutely  encounter  him  at 
unawares,  upon  advantage.  Such  one  lives  with  secu¬ 
rity,  dies  with  comfort. 


LXXVIII. 

Many  a  man  sends  others  to  heaven,  and  yet  goes  to 
hell  himself ;  and  not  few,  having  drawn  others  to  hell, 
yet  themselves  return  by  a  late  repentance,  to  life.  In 
a  good  action,  it  is  not  good  to  search  too  deeply  into 
the  intention  of  the  agent ;  but  in  silence  to  make  our 
best  benefit  of  the  work.  In  an  evil,  it  is  not  safe  to  re¬ 
gard  the  quality  of  the  person,  or  his  success ;  but  to 
consider  the  action,  abstracted  from  all  circumstances,  in 
his  own  kind.  So  we  shall  neither  neglect  good  deeds, 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


175 


because  they  speed  not  well  in  some  hands,  nor  affect  a 
prosperous  evil. 

LXXIX. 

Clod  doth  some  singular  actions,  wherein  we  cannot 
imitate  him  ;  some  wherein  we  may  not ;  most  wherein 
he  may  and  would  fain  be  followed.  He  fetcheth  good 
out  of  evil ;  so  may  we  turn  our  own  and  others’  sins  to 
private  or  public  good.  We  may  not  do  evil  for  a  good 
use ;  but  we  must  use  our  evil,  once  done,  to  good.  I 
hope  I  shall  not  offend  to  say,  that  the  good  use  which 
is  made  of  sins  is  as  gainful  to  God,  as  that  which  arises 
from  good  actions.  Happy  is  that  man  that  can  use 
either  his  good,  well,  or  his  evil. 

LXXX. 

There  is  no  difference  betwixt  anger  and  madness, 
but  continuance  ;  for  raging  anger  is  a  short  madness. 
What  else  argues  the  shaking  of  the  hands  and  lips ; 
paleness,  or  redness,  or  swelling  of  the  face  ;  glaring  of 
the  eyes;  stammering  of  the  tongue;  stamping  with  the 
feet ;  unsteady  motions  of  the  whole  body ;  rash  actions 
which  we  remember  not  to  have  done ;  distracted  and 
wild  speeches?  And  madness  again  is  nothing  but  a 
continued  rage ;  yea,  some  madness  ragetli  not.  Such 
a  mild  madness  is  more  tolerable  than  frequent  and  furi¬ 
ous  anger. 


LXXX1. 

Those  that  would  keep  state,  must  keep  aloof  off ;  es” 
pecially  if  their  qualities  be  not  answerable  in  height 
to  their  place :  for  many  great  persons  are  like  a  well- 


176 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


wrought  picture  upon  a  coarse  cloth ;  which  afar  off 
shows  fair,  but  near  hand  the  roundness  of  the  thread 
mars  the  good  workmanship.  Concealment  of  gifts,  af¬ 
ter  some  one  commended  act,  is  the  best  way  to  admira¬ 
tion,  and  secret  honor ;  but  he  that  would  profit,  must 
vent  himself  oft  and  liberally,  and  show  what  he  is,  with¬ 
out  all  private  regard.  As  therefore  many  times,  honor 
follows  modesty  unlooked  for ;  so  contrarily,  a  man  may 
show  no  less  pride  in  silence  and  obscurity,  than  others 
which  speak  and  write  for  glory.  And  that  other  pride 
is  so  much  the  worse,  as  it  is  more  unprofitable ;  for 
whereas  those  which  put  forth  their  gifts,  benefit  others 
whiles  they  seek  themselves ;  these  are  so  wholly  de¬ 
voted  to  themselves,  that  their  secrecy  doth  no  good  to 
others. 


LXXXII. 

Such  as  a  man’s  delights  and  cares  are  in  health,  such 
are  both  his  thoughts  and  speeches,  commonly,  on  his 
death  bed.  The  proud  man  talks  of  his  fair  suits  ;  the 
glutton,  of  his  dishes  ;  the  wanton,  of  his  beastliness  ; 
the  religious  man,  of  heavenly  things.  The  tongue  will 
hardly  leave  that  to  which  the  heart  is  inured.  If  we 
would  have  good  motions  to  visit  us  while  we  are  sick, 
we  must  send  for  them  familiarly  in  our  health. 

LXXXIII. 

He  is  a  rare  man,  that  hath  not  some  kind  of  madness 
reigning  in  him.  One,  a  dull  madness  of  melancholy  ; 
another,  a  conceited  madness  of  pride  ;  another,  a  super¬ 
stitious  madness  of  false  devotion  ;  a  fourth,  of  ambition 
or  covetousness  ;  a  fifth,  the  furious  madness  of  anger  : 


HOLY  OBSERVATIONS. 


177 


a  sixth,  the  laughing  madness  of  extreme  mirth  ;  a  sev¬ 
enth,  a  drunken  madness  ;  an  eighth,  of  outrageous  lust ; 
a  ninth,  the  learned  madness  of  curiosity ;  a  tenth,  the 
worst  madness,  of  profaneness  and  atheism.  It  is  as 
hard  to  reckon  up  all  kinds  of  madnesses,  as  of  disposi¬ 
tions.  Some  are  more  noted  and  punished  than  others 
— for  that  the  madman  in  one  kind  as  much  condemns 
another,  as  the  sober  man  condemns  him.  Only  that 
man  is  both  good,  and  wise,  and  happy,  that  is  free  from 
all  kinds  of  phrensy. 

LXXX1V. 

There  be  some  honest  errors,  wherewith  I  never 
found  that  God  was  offended.  That  an  husband  should 
think  his  own  wife  comely,  although  ill-favored  in  the 
eyes  of  others  ;  that  a  man  should  think  more  meanly 
of  his  own  good  parts  than  of  weaker  in  others  ;  to  give 
charitable,  though  mistaken,  constructions  of  doubtful  ac¬ 
tions  and  persons  ; — which  are  the  effects  of  natural  af¬ 
fection,  humility,  love, — were  never  censured  by  God. 
Herein  alone,  we  err  if  we  err  not. 

LXXXV. 

No  marvel  if  the  worldling  escape  earthly  afflictions. 
God  corrects  him  not,  because  He  loves  him  not.  He 
is  base-born  and  begot.  God  will  not  do  him  the  favor 
to  whip  him.  The  world  afflicts  him  not,  because  it 
loves  him — for  each  one  is  indulgent  to  his  own.  God 
uses  not  the  rod,  where  he  means  to  use  the  sword.  The 
pillory  or  scourge  is  for  those  malefactors  which  shall 
escape  execution. 


12 


178 


HOLT  OBSERVATIONS. 


LXXXVI. 

Weak  stomachs,  which  cannot  digest  large  meals,  feed 
oft  and  little.  For  our  souls,  that  which  we  want  in 
measure,  we  must  supply  in  frequence.  We  can  never 
fully  enough  comprehend  in  our  thoughts  the  joys  of 
heaven,  the  meritorious  sufferings  of  Christ,  the  terrors 
of  the  second  death : — therefore  we  must  meditate  of 
them  often. 

LXXXVII. 

The  same  thoughts  do  commonly  meet  us  in  the  same 
places  ;  as  if  we  had  left  them  there  till  our  return.  For 
that  the  mind  doth  secretly  frame  to  itself  memorative 
heads,  whereby  it  recalls  easily  the  same  conceits.  It 
is  best  to  employ  our  mind  there,  where  it  is  most  fixed. 
Our  devotion  is  so  dull,  it  cannot  have  too  many  advan¬ 
tages. 

LXXXVIII. 

I  find  but  one  example  in  all  Scripture,  of  any  bodily 
cure  which  our  Saviour  wrought  by  degrees :  only  the 
blind  man  whose  weak  faith  craved  help  by  others,  not 
by  himself,  saw  men  first  like  trees,  then  in  their  true 
shape.  All  other  miraculous  cures  of  Christ  were  done 
at  once,  and  perfect  at  first.  Contrarily,  I  find  but  one 
example  of  a  soul  fully  healed — that  is  sanctified  and 
glorified — both  in  a  day  :  all  other,  by  degrees  and  lei¬ 
sure.  The  steps  of  grace  are  soft  and  short.  Those  ex¬ 
ternal  miracles,  he  wrought  immediately  by  himself;  and 
therefore  no  marvel  if  they  were  absolute,  like  their  au¬ 
thor.  The  miraculous  work  of  our  regeneration,  he 
works  together  with  us.  He  giveth  it  efficacy  ;  we  give 
it  imperfection. 


CHARACTERISMS  OF  VIRTUES  AND  VICES: 


TWO  BOOKS. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 

The  Premonition. — The  Proem. — Character  of  Wisdom — Of 
Honesty — Of  Faith — Of  Humility — Of  Valor — Of  Patience — Of 
True  Friendship — Of  True  Nobility — Of  the  Good  Magistrate — Of 
the  Penitent — Of  the  Happy  Man. 


BOOK  II. 

The  Proem. — Character  of  the  Hypocrite — Of  the  Busy-body — 
Of  the  Superstitious — Of  the  Profane — Of  the  Malcontent — Of  the 
Inconstant — Of  the  Flatterer — Of  the  Slothful — Of  the  Covetous — 
Of  the  Vain-glorious — Of  the  Presumptuous — Of  the  Distrustful — 
Of  the  Ambitious — Of  the  Unthrift — Of  the  Envious. 


A  PREMONITION: 


OF  THE  TITLE  ANI)  USE  OF  CHARACTERS. 


Reader: — The  Divines  of  the  old  heathens  were  their 
Moral  Philosophers.  These  received  the  acts  of  an  inbred 
law  in  the  Sinai  of  nature,  and  delivered  them,  with  many 
expositions,  to  the  multitude.  These  were  the  overseers  of 
manners,  correctors  of  vices,  directors  of  lives,  doctors  of 
virtue ;  which  yet  taught  their  people  the  body  of  their 
natural  divinity — not  after  one  manner.  While  some 
spent  themselves  in  deep  discourses  of  human  felicity,  and 
the  way  to  it  in  common,  others  thought  it  best  to  apply 
the  general  precepts  of  goodness  or  decency  to  particular 
conditions  and  persons.  A  third  sort,  in  a  mean  course  be¬ 
twixt  the  two  other,  and  compounded  of  them  both,  be¬ 
stowed  their  time  in  drawing  out  the  true  lineaments  of 
every  virtue  and  vice,  so  lively,  that  who  saw  the  medals 
might  know  the  face  : — which  art  they  significantly  termed 
Charactery.  Their  papers  were  so  many  tables ;  their 
writings,  so  many  speaking  pictures,  or  living  images, 
whereby  the  ruder  multitude  might  even  by  their  sense 
learn  to  know  virtue,  and  discern  what  to  detest.  I  am  de¬ 
ceived  if  any  course  could  be  more  likely  to  prevail ;  for 
herein  the  gross  conceit  is  led  on  with  pleasure,  and  in¬ 
formed,  while  it  feels  nothing  but  delight :  and  if  pictures 


182 


A  PREMONITION. 


have  been  accounted  the  books  of  idiots,  behold  here  the 
benefit  of  an  image  without  the  offence ! 

It  is  no  shame  for  us  to  learn  wit  of  heathens ;  neither  is 
it  material  in  whose  school  we  take  out  a  good  lesson — 
yea,  it  is  more  shame  not  to  follow  their  good,  than  not  to 
lead  them  better.  As  one,  therefore,  that  in  worthy  ex¬ 
amples  hold  imitation  better  than  invention,  I  have  trod  in 
their  paths,  but  with  an  higher  and  wider  step ;  and  out  of 
their  tablets  have  drawn  these  larger  portraitures  of  both 
sorts.  More  might  be  said,  I  deny  not,  of  every  virtue,  of 
every  vice.  I  desired  not  to  say  all,  but  enough.  If  thou 
do  but  read  or  like  these,  I  have  spent  good  hours  ill ;  but 
if  thou  shalt  hence  abjure  those  vices,  which  before  thou 
thoughtest  not  ill-favored ;  or  fall  in  love  with  any  of  these 
goodly  faces  of  virtue,  or  shalt  hence  find  where  thou  hast 
any  little  touch  of  these  evils,  to  clear  thyself ;  or  where 
any  defect  in  these  graces,  to  supply  it — neither  of  us  shall 
need  to  repent  of  our  labor. 


BOOK  I. 


CHARACTERISED  OF  VIRTUES. 


THE  PROEM. 

Virtue  is  not  loved  enough,  because  she  is  not  seen ; 
and  vice  loseth  much  detestation,  because  her  ugliness  is 
secret.  Certainly,  there  are  so  many  beauties  and  so 
many  graces  in  the  face  of  goodness,  that  no  eye  can 
possibly  see  it  without  affection,  without  ravishment : 
and  the  visage  of  evil  is  so  monstrous,  through  lothsome 
deformities,  that  if  her  lovers  were  not  ignorant,  they 
would  be  mad  with  disdain  and  astonishment.  What 
need  we  more  than  to  discover  these  two  to  the  world  ? 
This  work  shall  save  the  labor  of  exhorting  and  dissua¬ 
sion.  I  have  here  done  it  as  I  could  ;  following  that  an¬ 
cient  master  of  morality,  Theophrastus,  who  thought 
this  the  fittest  task  for  the  ninety-and-ninth  year  of  his 
age,  and  the  profitablest  monument  that  he  could  leave 
for  a  farewell  to  his  Grecians.  Lo  here,  then,  virtue 
and  vice  stripped  naked  to  the  open  view  ;  and  despoil¬ 
ed,  one  of  her  rags,  the  other  of  her  ornaments  ;  and 
nothing  left  them  but  bare  presence,  to  plead  for  affec¬ 
tion  : — see  now  whether  shall  find  more  suitors.  And  if 
still  the  vain  minds  of  lewd  men  shall  dote  upon  their 


184  CHARACTERISMS  OF  VIRTUES. 

old  mistress,  it  will  appear  to  be,  not  because  she  is  not 
foul,  but  for  that  they  are  blind  and  bewitched.  And 
first  behold  the  goodly  features  of  Wisdom,  an  amiable 
virtue,  and  worthy  to  lead  this  stage  :  which,  as  she  ex¬ 
tends  herself  to  all  the  following  graces,  so  amongst  the 
rest  is  for  her  largeness  most  conspicuous. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  WISE  MAN. 

There  is  nothing  that  he  desires  not  to  know ;  but 
most  and  first,  himself ;  and  not  so  much  his  own  strength 
J  as  his  weaknesses  :  neither  is  his  knowledge  reduced  to 
discourse,  but  practice.  lie  is  a  skilful  logician,  not  by 
nature  so  much  as  use  :  his  working  mind  doth  nothing 
all  his  time,  but  make  syllogisms  and  draw  out  conclu¬ 
sions.  Everything  that  he  sees  and  hears,  serves  for  one 
of  the  premises  :  with  these  he  cares  first  to  inform  him¬ 
self,  then  to  direct  others.  Both  his  eyes  are  never  at 
once  from  home,  but  one  keeps  house  while  the  other 
roves  abroad  for  intelligence.  In  material  and  weighty 
points,  he  abides  not  his  mind  suspended  in  uncertain¬ 
ties  ;  but  hates  doubting,  where  he  may,  where  he  should 
be  resolute :  and  first  he  makes  sure  work  for  his  soul, 
accounting  it  no  safety  to  be  unsettled  in  the  foreknow¬ 
ledge  of  his  final  estate.  The  best  is  first  regarded  :  and 
vain  is  that  regard  which  endeth  not  in  security.  Every 
care  hath  his  just  order ;  neither  is  there  any  one  either 
neglected  or  misplaced.  He  is  seldom  overseen  with 
credulity ;  for  knowing  the  falseness  of  the  world,  he 
hath  learned  to  trust  himself  always ;  others,  so  far  as 
he  may  not  be  damaged  by  their  disappointment.  He 


THE  WISE  MAN. 


185 


seeks  his  quietness  in  secrecy ;  and  is  wont  both  to  hide 
himself  in  retiredness,  and  his  tongue  in  himself.  He 
loves  to  be  guessed  at,  not  known ;  and  to  see  the  world 
unseen  ;  and  when  he  is  forced  into  the  light,  shows  by 
his  actions  that  his  obscurity  was  neither  from  affectation 
nor  weakness.  His  purposes  are  neither  so  variable  as 
may  argue  inconstancy,  nor  obstinately  unchangeable ; 
but  framed  according  to  his  after-wits,  or  the  strength  of 
new  occasions.  He  is  both  an  apt  scholar,  and  an  ex¬ 
cellent  master  ;  for  both  everything  he  sees  informs  him, 
and  his  mind,  enriched  with  plentiful  observation,  can 
give  the  best  precepts.  His  free  discourse  runs  back  to 
the  ages  past,  and  recovers  events  out  of  memory ;  and 
then  preventeth  Time,  in  flying  forward  to  future  things  ; 
and  comparing  one  with  the  other,  can  give  a  verdict 
well-near  prophetical — wherein  his  conjectures  are  bet¬ 
ter  than  another’s  judgments.  His  passions  are  so  many 
good  servants,  which  stand  in  a  diligent  attendance,  rea¬ 
dy  to  be  commanded  by  reason,  by  religion  ;  and  if  at 
any  time,  forgetting  their  duty,  they  be  miscarried  to  re¬ 
bel,  he  can  first  conceal  their  mutiny,  then  suppress  it. 
In  all  his  just  and  worthy  designs,  he  is  never  at  a  loss  ; 
but  hath  so  projected  all  his  courses,  that  a  second  be¬ 
gins  where  the  first  failed ;  and  fetcheth  strength  from 
that  which  succeeded  not.  There  be  wrongs  which  he  will 
hot  see ;  neither  doth  he  always  look  that  way  which  he 
meaneth  ;  nor  take  notice  of  his  secret  smarts  when  they 
come  from  great  ones.  In  good  turns,  he  loves  not  to 
owe  more  than  he  must ;  in  evil,  to  owe  and  not  pay. 
Just  censures  he  deserves  not,  for  he  lives  without  the 
compass  of  an  adversary :  unjust,  he  contemneth  ;  and 
had  rather  suffer  false  infamy  to  die  alone,  than  lay  hands 


186  CHABACTERISM8  OF  VIRTUES. 

upon  it  in  an  open  violence.  He  confineth  himself  in 
the  circle  of  his  own  affairs,  and  lists  not  to  thrust  his 
finger  into  a  needless  fire.  He  stands  like  a  centre  un¬ 
moved,  while  the  circumference  of  his  estate  is  drawn 
above,  beneath,  about  him.  Finally,  his  wit  hath  cost 
him  much ;  and  he  can  both  keep,  and  value,  and  em¬ 
ploy  it.  He  is  his  own  lawyer  ;  the  treasury  of  know¬ 
ledge  ;  the  oracle  of  counsel ;  blind  in  no  man’s  cause  ; 
best-sighted  in  his  own. 


OF  AN  HONEST  MAN. 

He  looks  not  to  what  he  might  do,  but  what  he  should. 
Justice  is  his  first  guide  ;  the  second  law  of  his  actions 
is  expedience.  He  had  rather  complain  than  offend,  and 
hates  sin  more  for  the  indignity  of  it  than  the  danger. 
His  simple  uprightness  works  in  him  that  confidence 
which  ofttimes  wrongs  him,  and  gives  advantage  to  the 
subtil ;  when  he  rather  pities  their  faithlessness,  than  re¬ 
pents  of  his  credulity.  He  hath  but  one  heart,  and  that 
lies  open  to  sight ;  and  were  it  not  for  discretion,  he  nev¬ 
er  thinks  aught  whereof  he  would  avoid  a  witness.  His 
word  is  his  parchment ;  and  his  yea,  his  oath,  which  he 
will  not  violate  for  fear,  or  for  loss.  The  mishaps  of 
following  events  may  cause  him  to  blame  his  provi¬ 
dence — can  never  cause  him  to  eat  his  promise :  neither 
saith  he,  i  This  I  saw  not,’  but,  ‘  This  I  said.’  When  he 
is  made  his  friend’s  executor,  he  defrays  debts,  pays  le¬ 
gacies,  and  scorneth  to  gain  by  orphans,  or  to  ransack 
graves ;  and  therefore  will  be  true  to  a  dead  friend,  be¬ 
cause  he  sees  him  not.  All  his  dealings  are  square  and 
above  the  board:  he  bewrays  the  fault  of  what  he  sells,  and 


AN  HONEST  MAN. 


187 


restores  the  overseen  gain  of  a  false  reckoning.  He  es¬ 
teems  a  bribe  venomous,  though  it  come  gilded  over  with 
the  color  of  gratuity.  His  cheeks  are  never  stained 
with  the  blushes  of  recantation  ;  neither  doth  his  tongue 
falter,  to  make  good  a  lie  with  the  secret  glosses  of  dou>^ 
ble  or  reserved  senses  ;  and  when  his  name  is  traduced, 
his  innocency  bears  him  out  with  courage :  then,  lo,  he 
goes  on  the  plain  way  of  truth ;  and  will  either  triumph 
in  his  integrity,  or  suffer  with  it.  His  conscience  over¬ 
rules  his  providence ;  so  as  in  all  things,  good  or  ill,  he 
respects  the  nature  of  the  actions,  not  the  sequel.  If  he 
see  what  he  must  do,  let  God  see  what  shall  follow. 
He  never  loadeth  himself  with  burdens  above  his 
strength,  beyond  his  will :  and  once  bound,  what  he  can, 
he  will  do ;  neither  doth  he  will  but  what  he  can  do. 
His  ear  is  the  sanctuary  of  his  absent  friend’s  name,  of 
his  present  friend’s  secret ;  neither  of  them  can  miscarry 
in  his  trust.  He  remembers  the  wrongs  of  his  youth, 
and  repays  them  with  that  usury  which  he  himself  would 
not  take.  He  would  rather  want  than  borrow  ;  and  beg, 
than  not  to  pay.  His  fair  conditions  are  without  dis¬ 
sembling,  and  he  loves  actions  above  words.  Finally, 
he  hates  falsehood  worse  than  death;  he  is  a  faithful 
client  of  truth  ;  no  man’s  enemy ;  and  it  is  a  question, 
whether  more  another  man’s  friend,  or  his  own ;  and  if 
there  were  no  heaven,  yet  he  would  be  virtuous. 

OF  THE  FAITHFUL  MAN. 

His  eyes  have  no  other  objects  but  absent  and  invisi¬ 
ble  ;  which  they  see  so  clearly,  as  that  to  them  sense 
is  blind.  That  which  is  present,  they  see  not :  if  I  may 


188  CHARACTERISMS  OF  VIRTUES. 


not  rather  say  that  what  is  past  or  future,  is  present  to 
them.  Herein  he  exceeds  all  others,  that  to  him  nothing 
is  impossible,  nothing  difficult,  whether  to  bear  or  under¬ 
take.  He  walks  every  day  with  his  Maker,  and  talks 
with  him  familiarly,  and  lives  ever  in  heaven,  and  sees 
all  earthly  things  beneath  him.  When  he  goes  in  to 
converse  with  God,  he  wears  not  his  own  clothes,  but 
takes  them  still  out  of  the  rich  wardrobe  of  his  Redeem¬ 
er  ;  and  then  dare  boldly  press  in  and  challenge  a  bless¬ 
ing.  The  celestial  spirits  do  not  scorn  his  company,  yea 
his  service.  He  deals  in  these  worldly  affairs  as  a 
stranger,  and  hath  his  heart  ever  at  home.  Without  a 
written  warrant,  he  dare  do  nothing ;  and  with  it,  any¬ 
thing.  His  war  is  perpetual,  without  truce,  without  in¬ 
termission,  and  his  victory  certain.  He  meets  with  the 
infernal  powers,  and  tramples  them  under  feet.  The 
shield  that  he  ever  bears  before  him  can  neither  be  miss¬ 
ed  nor  pierced  ;  if  his  hand  be  wounded,  yet  his  heart  is 
safe  ;  he  is  often  tripped,  seldom  foiled ;  and  if  some¬ 
times  foiled,  never  vanquished.  He  hath  white  hands 
and  a  clean  soul  fit  to  lodge  God  in,  all  the  rooms  where¬ 
of  are  set  apart  for  his  holiness.  Iniquity  hath  oft  call¬ 
ed  at  the  door  and  craved  entertainment,  but  with  a  re¬ 
pulse  ;  or  if  sin  of  force  will  be  his  tenant,  his  lord  he 
cannot.  His  faults  are  few ;  and  those  he  hath,  God 
will  not  see.  He  is  allied  so  high  that  he  dare  call  God, 
father;  his  Saviour,  brother;  heaven,  his  patrimony; 
and  thinks  it  no  presumption  to  trust  to  the  attendance 
of  angels.  His  understanding  is  enlightened  with  the 
beams  of  divine  truth ;  God  hath  acquainted  him  with 
His  will ;  and  what  he  knows,  he  dare  confess  ;  there  is 
not  more  love  in  his  heart,  than  liberty  in  his  tongue.  If 


THE  FAITHFUL  MAN. 


189 


torments  stand  betwixt  him  and  Christ,  if  death,  he  con¬ 
temns  them  ;  and  if  his  own  parents  lie  in  his  way  to 
God,  his  holy  carelessness  makes  them  his  footsteps. 
His  experiments  have  drawn  forth  rules  of  confidence, 
which  he  dares  oppose  against  all  the  fears  of  distrust : 
wherein  he  thinks  it  safe  to  charge  God  with  what  He 
hath  done,  with  what  He  hath  promised.  Examples  are 
his  proofs ;  and  instances,  his  demonstrations.  What 
hath  God  given  which  He  cannot  give  ?  What  have 
others  suffered,  which  he  may  not  be  enabled  to  endure  ? 
Is  he  threatened  banishment  ?  There  he  sees  the  dear 
evangelist  in  Patmos.  Cutting  in  pieces  ?  He  sees 
Isaiah  under  the  saw.  Drowning?  He  sees  Jonah  div¬ 
ing  into  the  living  gulf.  Burning?  He  sees  the  three 
children  in  the  hot  walk  of  the  furnace.  Devouring? 
He  sees  Daniel  in  the  sealed  den  amidst  his  terrible  com¬ 
panions.  Stoning  ?  He  sees  the  first  martyr  under  his 
heap  of  many  grave-stones.  Heading?  Lo,  there  the 
Baptist’s  neck,  bleeding  in  Herodias’  platter.  He  emu¬ 
lates  their  pain,  their  strength,  their  glory.  He  wearies 
not  himself  with  cares  ;  for  he  knows  he  lives  not  of  his 
own  cost:  not  idly  omitting  means,  but  not  using  them 
with  diffidence.  In  the  midst  of  ill  rumors  and  amaze¬ 
ments,  his  countenance  changeth  not ;  for  he  knows  both 
whom  he  hath  trusted,  and  whither  death  can  lead  him. 
He  is  not  so  sure  he  shall  die,  as  that  he  shall  be  re¬ 
stored  ;  and  out-faceth  his  death  with  his  resurrection. 
Finally,  he  is  rich  in  works,  busy  in  obedience,  cheer¬ 
ful  and  unmoved  in  expectation,  better  with  evils,  in 
common  opinion  miserable,  but  in  true  judgment  more 
than  a  man. 


190  CHARACTERISMS  OF  VIRTUES. 


OF  THE  HUMBLE  MAN. 

He  is  a  friendly  enemy  to  himself :  for  though  he  be 
not  out  of  his  own  favor,  no  man  sets  so  low  a  value  of 
his  worth  as  himself — not  out  of  ignorance  or  careless¬ 
ness,  but  of  a  voluntary  and  meek  dejectedness.  He 
admires  everything  in  another,  whiles  the  same  or  bet¬ 
ter  in  himself  he  thinks  not  unworthily  contemned.  His 
eyes  are  full  of  his  own  wants,  and  others’  perfections. 
He  loves  rather  to  give  than  take  honor  ;  not  in  a  fash¬ 
ion  of  complimental  courtesy,  but  in  simplicity  of  his 
judgment ;  neither  doth  he  fret  at  those  on  whom  he  for- 
ceth  precedency,  as  one  that  hoped  their  modesty  would 
have  refused,  but  holds  his  mind  unfeignedly  below  his 
place,  and  is  ready  to  go  lower,  if  need  be,  without  dis¬ 
content.  When  he  hath  but  his  due,  he  magnifieth 
courtesy,  and  disclaims  his  deserts.  He  can  be  more 
ashamed  of  honor  than  grieved  with  contempt ;  because 
he  thinks  that  causeless,  this  deserved.  His  face,  his 
carriage,  his  habit,  savor  of  lowliness  without  affectation, 
and  yet  he  is  much  under  that  he  seemeth.  His  words 
are  few  and  soft,  never  either  peremptory  or  censorious  ; 
because  he  thinks  both  each  man  more  wise,  and  none 
more  faulty  than  himself ;  and  when  he  approacheth  to 
the  throne  of  God,  he  is  so  taken  up  with  the  divine 
greatness,  that  in  his  own  eyes  he  is  either  vile  or  no¬ 
thing.  Places  of  public  charge  are  fain  to  sue  to  him, 
and  hale  him  out  of  his  chosen  obscurity ;  which  he  holds 
off — not  cunningly  to  cause  importunity,  but  sincerely, 
in  the  conscience  of  his  defects.  He  frequenteth  not  the 
stages  of  common  resorts ;  and  then  alone  thinks  him- 


A  VALIANT  MAN. 


191 


self  in  his  natural  element,  when  he  is  shrouded  within 
his  own  walls.  He  is  ever  jealous  over  himself,  and 
still  suspecteth  that  which  others  applaud.  There  is  no 
better  object  of  beneficence  ;  for  what  he  receives,  he  as¬ 
cribes  merely  to  the  bounty  of  the  giver,  nothing  to 
merit.  He  emulates  no  man  in  anything  but  goodness, 
and  that  with  more  desire  than  hope,  to  overtake.  No 
man  is  so  contented  with  his  little,  and  so  patient  under 
miseries;  because  he  knows  the  greatest  evils  are  below 
his  sins,  and  the  least  favors  above  his  deservings.  He 
walks  ever  in  awe,  and  dare  not  but  subject  every  word 
and  action  to  an  high  and  just  censure.  He  is  a  lowly 
valley,  sweetly  planted  and  well  watered ;  the  proud 
man’s  earth  whereon  he  trampleth  ;  but  secretly  full  of 
wealthy  mines,  more  worth  than  he  that  walks  over 
them  ;  a  rich  stone  set  in  lead ;  and  lastly,  a  true  temple 
of  God,  built  with  a  low  roof. 

OF  A  VALIANT  MAN. 

He  undertakes  without  rashness,  and  performs  with¬ 
out  fear.  He  seeks  not  for  dangers ;  but  when  they 
find  him,  he  bears  them  over  with  courage,  with  success. 
He  hath  ofttimes  looked  death  in  the  face,  and  passed 
by  it  with  a  smile  ;  and  when  he  sees  he  must  yield,  doth 
at  once  welcome  and  contemn  it.  He  forecasts  the 
worst  of  all  events,  and  encounters  them  before  they 
come,  in  a  secret  and  mental  war ;  and  if  the  sudden¬ 
ness  of  an  unexpected  evil  have  surprised  his  thoughts, 
and  infected  his  cheeks  with  paleness,  he  hath  no  sooner 
digested  it  in  his  conceit,  than  he  gathers  up  himself, 
and  insults  over  mischief.  He  is  the  master  of  himself, 


192 


CHARACTERI9MS  OF  TIRTUES. 


and  subdues  liis  passions  to  reason  ;  and,  by  this  inward 
victory,  works  his  own  peace.  He  is  afraid  of  nothing 
but  the  displeasure  of  the  Highest,  and  runs  away  from 
nothing  but  sin.  He  looks  not  on  his  hands,  but  his 
cause ;  not  how  strong  he  is,  but  how  innocent ;  and 
where  goodness  is  his  warrant,  he  may  be  over-master¬ 
ed,  he  cannot  be  foiled.  The  sword  is  to  him  the  last 
of  all  trials ;  which  he  draws  forth  still  as  defendant, 
not  as  challenger,  with  a  willing  kind  of  unwillingness: 
no  man  can  better  manage  it,  with  more  safety,  with 
more  favor.  He  had  rather  have  his  blood  seen  than 
his  back,  and  disdains  life  upon  base  conditions.  No 
man  is  more  mild  to  a  relenting  or  vanquished  adversa¬ 
ry,  or  more  hates  to  set  his  foot  on  a  carcass.  He  had 
rather  smother  an  injury  than  revenge  himself  of  the 
impotent ;  and  I  know  not  whether  more  detests  cow¬ 
ardliness  or  cruelty.  He  talks  little,  and  brags  less ; 
and  loves  rather  the  silent  language  of  the  hand — to  be 
seen  than  heard.  He  lies  ever  close  within  himself, 
armed  with  wise  resolution,  and  will  not  be  discovered 
but  by  death  or  danger.  He  is  neither  prodigal  of 
blood,  to  misspend  it  idly,  nor  niggardly  to  grudge  it,  when 
either  God  calls  for  it,  or  his  country  :  neither  is  he  more 
liberal  of  his  own  life  than  of  others.  His  power  is  lim¬ 
ited  by  his  will ;  and  he  holds  it  the  noblest  revenge, 
that  he  might  hurt  and  doth  not.  He  commands  with¬ 
out  tyranny  and  imperiousness,  obeys  without  servility, 
and  changes  not  his  mind  with  his  estate.  The  height 
of  his  spirits  overlooks  all  casualties,  and  his  boldness 
proceeds  neither  from  ignorance  nor  senselessness  ;  but 
first  he  values  evils,  and  then  despises  them.  He  is  so 
balanced  with  wisdom  that  he  floats  steadily  in  the  midst 


A  PATIENT  MAN. 


193 


of  all  tempests.  Deliberate  in  his  purposes,  firm  in  res¬ 
olution,  bold  in  enterprising,  unwearied  in  achieving, 
and,  howsoever,  happy  in  success :  and  if  ever  he  be 
overcome,  his  heart  yields  last. 

OF  A  PATIENT  MAN. 

The  patient  man  is  made  of  a  metal  not  so  hard  as 
flexible.  His  shoulders  are  large,  fit  for  a  load  of  inju¬ 
ries  ;  which  he  bears,  not  out  of  baseness  and  cowardli¬ 
ness,  because  he  dare  not  revenge,  but  out  of  Christian 
fortitude,  because  he  may  not.  He  hath  so  conquered 
himself  that  wrongs  cannot  conquer  him ;  and  herein 
alone  finds  that  victory  consists  in  yielding.  He  is 
above  nature,  while  he  seems  below  himself.  The 
vilest  creature  knows  how  to  turn  again,  but  to  com¬ 
mand  himself  not  to  resist,  being  urged,  is  more  than  he- 
roical.  His  constructions  are  ever  full  of  charity  and 
favor — either  this  wrong  was  not  done,  or  not  with  in¬ 
tent  of  wrong ;  or  if  that,  upon  misinformation  ;  or  if 
none  of  these,  rashness,  though  a  fault,  shall  serve  for  an 
excuse.  Himself  craves  the  offender’s  pardon,  before 
his  confession  ;  and  a  slight  answer  contents,  where  the 
offended  desires  to  forgive.  He  is  God’s  best  witness ; 
and  when  he  stands  before  the  bar  for  truth,  his  tongue 
is  calmly  free,  his  forehead  firm,  and  he,  with  erect  and 
settled  countenance,  hears  his  just  sentence  and  rejoices 
in  it.  The  jailors  that  attend  him,  are  to  him  his  pages 
of  honor ;  his  dungeon,  the  lower  part  of  the  vault  of 
heaven  ;  his  rack  or  wheel,  the  stairs  of  his  ascent  to 
glory.  He  challengeth  his  executioners,  and  encounters 
the  fiercest  pains  with  strength  of  resolution  ;  and  while 

13 


194 


CHARACTERISMS  OF  VIRTUES. 


he  suffers,  the  beholders  pity  him,  the  tormentors  com¬ 
plain  of  weariness,  and  both  of  them  wonder.  No  an¬ 
guish  can  master  him,  whether  by  violence  or  by  lingering. 
He  accounts  expectation  no  punishment,  and  can  abide 
to  have  his  hopes  adjourned  till  a  new  day.  Good  laws 
serve  for  his  protection,  not  for  his  revenge ;  and  his 
own  power,  to  avoid  indignities,  not  to  return  them. 
His  hopes  are  so  strong  that  they  can  insult  over  the 
greatest  discouragements ;  and  his  apprehensions  so 
deep,  that  when  he  hath  once  fastened,  he  sooner  leaveth 
his  life  than  his  hold.  Neither  time  not  perverseness  can 
make  him  cast  off  his  charitable  endeavors,  and  despair 
of  prevailing ;  but  in  spite  of  all  crosses  and  all  denials, 
he  redoubleth  his  beneficial  offers  of  love.  He  trieth 
the  sea  after  many  shipwrecks,  and  beats  still  at  that 
door  which  he  never  saw  opened.  Contrariety  of  events 
doth  but  exercise,  not  dismay  him ;  and  when  crosses 
afflict  him,  he  sees  a  divine  hand  invisibly  striking  with 
these  sensible  scourges  ;  against  which  he  dares  not  re¬ 
bel  nor  murmur.  Hence  all  things  befall  him  alike ; 
and  he  goes,  with  the  same  mind,  to  the  shambles  and 
to  the  fold.  His  recreations  are  calm  and  gentle  ;  and 
not  more  full  of  relaxation,  than  void  of  fury.  This 
man  only  can  turn  necessity  into  virtue,  and  put  evil-  to 
good  use.  He  is  the  surest  friend,  the  latest  and  easiest 
enemy,  the  greatest  conqueror,  and  so  much  more  happy 
than  others,  by  how  much  he  could  abide  to  be  more 
miserable. 


THE  TRUE  FRIEND. 


195 


OF  THE  TRUE  FRIEND. 

ITis  affections  are  both  united  and  divided — united  to 
him  he  loveth,  divided  betwixt  another  and  himself ; 
and  his  one  heart  is  so  parted,  that  whiles  he  hath 
some,  his  friend  hath  all.  His  choice  is  led  by  virtue, 
or  by  the  best  of  virtues,  Religion — not  by  gain,  not 
by  pleasure  ;  yet  not  without  respect  of  equal  condition, 
of  disposition  not  unlike :  which,  once  made,  admits  of 
no  change,  except  he  whom  he  loveth  be  changed  quite 
from  himself ;  nor  that  suddenly,  but  after  long  ex¬ 
pectation.  Extremity  doth  but  fasten  him ;  whiles  he, 
like  a  well-wrought  vault,  lies  the  stronger  by  how 
much  more  weight  he  bears.  When  necessity  calls 
him  to  it,  he  can  be  a  servant  to  his  equal,  with  the  same 
will  wherewith  he  can  command  his  inferior ;  and  though 
he  rise  to  honor,  forgets  not  his  familiarity,  nor  suffers 
inequality  of  estate  to  work  strangeness  of  countenance  ; 
on  the  other  side,  he  lifts  up  his  friend  to  advance¬ 
ment  with  a  willing  hand,  without  envy,  without 
dissimulation.  When  his  mate  is  dead,  he  accounts 
himself  but  half  alive ;  then  his  love,  not  dissolved  by 
death,  derives  itself  to  those  orphans  which  never  knew 
the  price  of  their  father ;  they  become  the  heirs  of  his 
affection,  and  the  burden  of  his  cares.  He  embraces  a 
free  community  of  all  things,  save  those  which  either 
honesty  reserves  proper,  or  nature ;  and  hates  to  enjoy 
that  which  would  do  his  friend  more  good.  His  charity 
serves  to  cloak  noted  infirmities,  not  by  untruth,  not  by 
flattery,  but  by  discreet  secrecy ;  neither  is  he  more  favor¬ 
able  in  concealment  than  round  in  his  private  reprehen- 


196  CHAKACTERISMS  OF  VIRTUES. 

sions;  and  when  another’s  simple  fidelity  shows  itself  in 
his  reproof  he  loves  his  monitor  so  much  the  more,  by  how 
much  more  he  smarteth.  His  bosom  is  his  friend’s  closet, 
where  he  may  safely  lay  up  his  complaints,  his  doubts, 
his  cares ;  and  look,  how  he  leaves,  so  he  finds  them — 
save  for  some  addition  of  seasonable  counsel  for  redress. 
If  some  unhappy  suggestion  shall  either  disjoint  his  af¬ 
fection  or  break  it,  it  soon  knits  again,  and  grows  the 
stronger  by  that  stress.  He  is  so  sensible  of  another’s 
injuries,  that  when  his  friend  is  stricken  he  cries  out,  and 
equally  smarteth,  untouched,  as  one  affected  not  with 
sympathy,  but  with  a  real  feeling  of  pain  :  and  in  what 
mischief  may  be  prevented,  he  interposeth  his  aid,  and  of¬ 
fers  to  redeem  his  friend  with  himself.  No  hour  can  be 
unseasonable,  no  business  difficult,  nor  pain  grievous  in 
condition  of  his  ease ;  and  what  either  he  doth  or  suf- 
fereth,  he  neither  cares  nor  desires  to  have  known,  lest 
he  should  seem  to  look  for  thanks.  If  he  can  therefore 
steal  the  performance  of  a  good  office,  unseen,  the  con¬ 
science  of  his  faithfulness  herein  is  so  much  sweeter  as 
it  is  more  secret.  In  favors  done,  his  memory  is  frail ; 
in  benefits  received,  eternal.  He  scorneth  either  to  re¬ 
gard  recompense,  or  not  to  offer  it.  He  is  the  comfort 
of  miseries,  the  guide  of  difficulties,  the  joy  of  life,  the 
treasure  of  earth  ;  and  n  o  other  than  a  good  angel 
clothed  in  flesh. 

OF  THE  TRULY  NOBLE. 

He  stands  not  upon  what  he  borrowed  of  his  ances¬ 
tors,  but  thinks  he  must  work  out  his  own  honor ;  and 
if  he  cannot  reach  the  virtue  of  them  that  gave  him 


THE  TRULY  NOBLE. 


197 


outward  glory  by  inheritance,  he  is  more  abashed  of  his 
impotency,  than  transported  with  a  great  name.  Great¬ 
ness  doth  not  make  him  scornful  and  imperious  ;  but  rath¬ 
er,  like  the  fixed  stars,  the  higher  he  is,  the  less  he  de¬ 
sires  to  seem.  Neither  cares  he  so  much  for  pomp  and 
frothy  ostentation,  as  for  the  solid  truth  of  nobleness. 
Courtesy  and  sweet  affability  can  be  no  more  severed 
from  him,  than  life  from  his  soul ; — not  out  of  a  base  and 
servile  popularity,  and  desire  of  ambitious  insinuation  ; 
but  of  a  native  gentleness  of  disposition,  and  true  value  of 
himself.  His  hand  is  open  and  bounteous  ;  yet  not  so  as 
that  he  should  rather  respect  his  glory  than  his  estate  : 
wherein  his  wisdom  can  distinguish  betwixt  parasites  and 
friends,  betwixt  changing  of  favors  and  expending  them. 
He  scorneth  to  make  his  height  a  privilege  of  looseness  ; 
but  accounts  his  titles  vain,  if  he  be  inferior  to  others  in 
goodness  ;  and  thinks  he  should  be  more  strict,  the  more 
eminent  he  is — because  he  is  more  observed,  and  now 
his  offences  are  become  exemplar.  There  is  no  virtue 
that  he  holds  unfit  for  ornament,  for  use  ;  nor  any  vice, 
which  he  condemns  not  as  sordid  and  a  fit  companion 
of  baseness ;  and  whereof  he  doth  not  more  hate  the 
blemish,  than  affect  the  pleasure.  He  so  studies,  as  one 
that  knows  ignorance  can  neither  purchase  honor  nor 
wield  it ;  and  that  knowledge  must  both  guide  and  grace 
him.  His  exercises  are,  from  his  childhood,  ingenuous, 
manly,  decent,  and  such  as  tend  still  to  wit,  valor, 
activity ;  and  if,  as  seldom,  he  descend  to  disports  of 
chance,  his  games  shall  never  make  him  either  pale  with 
fear,  or  hot  with  desire  of  gain.  He  doth  not  so  use  his 
followers,  as  if  he  thought  they  were  made  for  nothing 
but  his  servitude ;  whose  felicity  were  only  to  be  com- 


198 


CHARACTERISMS  OF  VIRTUES. 


mantled  and  please  ;  wearing  them  to  the  back,  and  then 
either  finding  or  framing  excuses  to  discard  them  empty  ; 
— but  upon  all  opportunities,  lets  them  feel  the  sweet¬ 
ness  of  their  own  serviceableness  and  his  bounty.  Si¬ 
lence  in  officious  service,  is  the  best  oratory  to  plead  for 
his  respect.  All  diligence  is  but  lent  to  him,  none  lost. 
His  wealth  stands  in  receiving ;  his  honor  in  givin  g. 
He  cares  not  either  how  many  hold  of  his  goodness,  or 
to  how  few  he  is  beholden  ;  and  if  he  have  cast  away 
favors,  he  hates  either  to  upbraid  them  to  his  enemy,  or 
to  challenge  restitution.  None  can  be  more  pitiful  to 
the  distressed,  or  more  prone  to  succor ;  and  then  most, 
where  is  least  means  to  solicit,  least  possibility  of  requi¬ 
tal.  He  is  equally  addressed  to  war  and  peace ;  and 
knows  not  more  how  to  command  others,  than  how  to  be 
his  country’s  servant  in  both.  He  is  more  careful  to 
give  true  honor  to  his  Maker,  than  to  receive  civil  hon¬ 
or  from  men.  He  knows  that  this  service  is  free  and 
noble,  and  ever  loaded  with  sincere  glory ;  and  how 
vain  it  is  to  hunt  after  applause  from  the  world,  till  he 
be  sure  of  Him  that  moldeth  all  hearts  and  poureth  con¬ 
tempt  on  princes ;  and,  shortly,  so  demeans  himself,  as 
one  that  accounts  the  body  of  nobility  to  consist  in  blood, 
the  soul  in  the  eminence  of  virtue. 


OF  THE  GOOD  MAGISTRATE. 

He  is  the  faithful  deputy  of  his  Maker,  whose  obedi¬ 
ence  is  the  rule  whereby  he  ruleth.  His  breast  is  the 
ocean  whereinto  all  the  cares  of  private  men  empty 
themselves  ;  which,  as  he  receives  without  complaint 
and  overflowing,  so  he  sends  them  forth  again  by  a  wise 


THE  GOOD  MAGISTRATE. 


199 


conveyance,  in  the  streams  of  justice.  His  doors,  his 
ears,  are  ever  open  to  suitors  ;  and  not  who  comes  first, 
speeds  well,  but  whose  cause  is  best.  His  nights,  his 
meals,  are  short  and  interrupted ;  all  which  he  bears 
well,  because  he  knows  himself  made  for  a  public  ser¬ 
vant  of  peace  and  justice.  He  sits  quietly  at  the  stern, 
and  commands  one  to  the  top-sail,  another  to  the  main, 
a  third  to  the  plummet,  a  fourth  to  the  anchor,  as  he  sees 
the  need  of  their  course  and  weather  requires ;  and  doth 
no  less  by  his  tongue,  than  all  the  mariners  with  their 
hands.  On  the  bench,  he  is  another  from  himself  at 
home:  now  all  private  respects  of  blood,  alliance,  amity, 
are  forgotten ;  and  if  his  own  son  come  under  trial,  he 
knows  him  not.  Pity — which  in  all  others  is  wont  to 
be  the  best  praise  of  humanity,  and  the  fruit  of  Chris¬ 
tian  love,  is  by  him  thrown  over  the  bar,  for  corruption. 
As  for  favor,  the  false  advocate  of  the  gracious,  he  al¬ 
lows  him  not  to  appear  in  the  court — there  only  causes 
are  heard  speak,  not  persons.  Eloquence  is  then  only 
not  discouraged,  when  she  serves  for  a  client  of  truth. 
Mere  narrations  are  allowed  in  this  oratory ;  not  pro¬ 
ems,  not  excursions,  not  glosses.  Truth  must  strip  her¬ 
self  and  come  in  naked  to  his  bar,  without  false  bodies, 
or  colors,  without  disguises.  A  bribe  in  his  closet,  or  a 
letter  on  the  bench,  or  the  whispering  and  winks  of  a 
great  neighbor,  are  answered  with  an  angry  and  coura¬ 
geous  repulse.  Displeasure,  revenge,  recompense,  stand 
on  both  sides  the  bench,  but  he  scorns  to  turn  his  eye 
towards  them ;  looking  only  right  forward  at  equity, 
which  stands  full  before  him.  His  sentence  is  ever  de¬ 
liberate,  and  guided  with  ripe  wisdom,  yet  his  hand  is 
slower  than  his  tongue :  but  when  he  is  urged  by  occa- 


200  CHARACTERISMS  OF  VIRTUES. 

sion,  either  to  doom  or  execution,  he  shows  how  much 
he  hateth  merciful  injustice  ;  neither  can  his  resolution 
or  act  be  reversed  with  partial  importunity.  His  fore¬ 
head  is  rugged  and  severe,  able  to  discountenance  vil¬ 
lainy  ;  yet  his  words  are  more  awful  than  his  brow  ;  and 
his  hand,  than  his  words.  I  know  not  whether  he  be 
more  feared  or  loved,  both  affections  are  so  sweetly  con- 
tempered  in  all  hearts.  The  good  fear  him  lovingly, 
the  middle  sort  love  him  fearfully,  and  only  the  wicked 
man  fears  him  slavishly  without  love.  He  hates  to  pay 
private  wrongs  with  the  advantage  of  his  office ;  and  if 
ever  he  be  partial,  it  is  to  his  enemy.  He  is  not  more 
sage  in  his  gown  than  valorous  in  arms  ;  and  increaseth 
in  the  rigor  of  discipline,  as  the  times  in  danger.  His 
sword  hath  neither  rusted  for  want  of  use,  nor  surfeiteth 
of  blood ;  but,  after  many  threats,  is  unsheathed  as  the 
dreadful  instrument  of  divine  revenge.  He  is  the  guard 
of  good  laws,  the  refuge  of  innoceney,  the  comet  of  the 
guilty,  the  pay-master  of  good  deserts,  the  champion  of 
justice,  the  patron  of  peace  the  tutor  of  the  church,  the 
father  of  his  country,  and,  as  it  were,  another  God  upon 
earth. 


OF  THE  PENITENT. 

He  hath  a  wounded  heart  and  a  sad  face ;  yet  not  so 
much  for  fear  as  for  unkindness.  The  wrong  of  his  sin 
troubles  him  more  than  the  danger.  None  but  he  is  the 
better  for  his  sorrow ;  neither  is  any  passion  more  hurt¬ 
ful  to  others,  than  this  is  gainful  to  him.  The  more  he 
seeks  to  hide  his  grief,  the  less  it  will  be  hid :  every  man 
may  read  it,  not  only  in  his  eyes,  but  in  his  bones. 


THE  PENITENT. 


201 


Whiles  he  is  in  charity  with  all  others,  he  is  so  fallen  out 
with  himself,  that  none  but  God  can  reconcile  him.  He 
hath  sued  himself  in  all  courts,  accuseth,  arraigneth,  sen- 
tenceth,  punisheth  himself  unpartially  ;  and  sooner  may 
find  mercy  at  any  hand,  than  at  his  own.  He  only  hath 
pulled  off  the  fair  visor  of  sin  ;  so  as  that  appears  not, 
but  masked,  unto  others,  is  seen  of  him,  barefaced ;  and 
bewrays  that  fearful  ugliness  which  none  can  conceive, 
but  he  that  hath  viewed  it.  He  hath  looked  into  the 
depth  of  the  bottomless  pit,  and  hath  seen  his  own  of¬ 
fence  tormented  in  others,  and  the  same  brands  shaken 
at  him.  He  hath  seen  the  change  of  faces  in  that  evil 
one,  as  a  tempter,  as  a  tormentor ;  and  hath  heard  the 
noise  of  a  conscience  ;  and  is  so  flighted  with  all  these, 
that  he  never  can  have  rest  till  he  have  run  out  of  him¬ 
self  to  God,  in  whose  face  at  first  he  finds  rigor,  but  af¬ 
terwards  sweetness  in  his  bosom.  He  bleeds  first  from 
the  hand  that  heals  him.  The  law  of  God  hath  made 
work  for  mercy  :  which  he  hath  no  sooner  apprehended, 
than  he  forgets  his  wounds,  and  looks  carelessly  upon  all 
these  terrors  of  guiltiness.  When  he  casts  his  eye  back 
upon  himself,  he  wonders  where  he  was,  and  how  he 
came  there,  and  grants  that  if  there  were  not  some 
witchcraft  in  sin,  he  could  not  have  been  so  sottishly 
graceless.  And  now  in  the  issue  Satan  finds,  not  with¬ 
out  indignation  and  repentance,  that  he  hath  done  him  a 
good  turn  in  tempting  him :  for  he  had  never  been  so 
good,  if  he  had  not  sinned  ;  he  had  never  fought  with 
such  courage,  if  he  had  not  seen  his  blood  and  been 
ashamed  of  his  foil.  Now  he  is  seen  and  felt  in  the 
front  of  the  spiritual  battle,  and  can  teach  others  how  to 
fight,  and  encourage  them  in  fighting.  His  heart  was 


202  CHAEACTERISMS  OF  VIRTUES. 


never  more  taken  up  with  the  pleasure  of  sin,  than  now 
with  care  of  avoiding  it.  The  very  sight  of  that  cup 
wherein  such  a  fulsome  potion  was  brought  him,  turns 
his  stomach.  The  first  offers  of  sin  make  him  tremble 
more  now,  than  he  did  before  at  the  judgments  of  his  sin  ; 
neither  dares  he  so  much  as  look  towards  Sodom.  All 
the  powers  and  craft  of  hell  cannot  fetch  him  in  for  a 
customer  to  evil :  his  infirmity  may  yield  once  ;  his  res¬ 
olution,  never.  There  is  none  of  his  senses  or  parts 
which  he  hath  not  within  covenants  for  their  good  be¬ 
haviour  ;  which  they  cannot  ever  break  with  impunity. 
The  wrongs  of  his  sin  he  repays  to  men,  with  recom¬ 
pense,  as  hating  it  should  be  said  he  owes  anything  to 
his  offence :  to  God,  what  in  him  lies,  with  sighs,  tears, 
vows,  and  endeavors  of  amendment.  No  heart  is  more 
waxen  to  the  impressions  of  forgiveness ;  neither  are 
his  hands  more  open  to  receive,  than  to  give  pardon. 
All  the  injuries  which  are  offered  to  him,  are  swallowed 
up  in  his  wrongs  to  his  Maker  and  Redeemer,  neither 

can  he  call  for  the  arrearages  of  his  farthings,  when  he 
«  ***  * 
looks  upon  the  millions  forgiven  him.  He  feels  not 

what  he  suffers  from  men,  when  he  thinks  of  what  he 

hath  done  and  should  have  suffered.  He  is  a  thankful 

*r  • . 

herald  of  the  mercies  of  his  God  ;  which  if  all  the  world 
hear  not  from  his  mouth,  it  is  no  fault  of  his.  Neither 
did  he  so  burn  with  the  evil  fires  of  concupiscence,  as 
now  with  the  holy  flames  of  zeal  to  that  glory  which  he 
hath  blemished;  and  his  eyes  are  as  full  of  moisture  as 
his  heart  of  heat.  The  gates  of  heaven  are  not  so  knock¬ 
ed  at  by  any  suitor,  whether  for  frequence  or  importu¬ 
nity.  You  shall  find  his  cheeks  furrowed,  his  knees 
hard,  his  lips  sealed  up — save  when  he  must  accuse  him- 


THE  PENITENT. 


203 


self  or  glorify  God — his  eyes  humbly  dejected ;  and 
sometimes  you  shall  take  him  breaking  off  a  sigh  in  the 
midst,  as  one  that  would  steal  an  humiliation  unknown, 
and  would  be  offended  with  any  part  that  should  not 
keep  his  counsel.  When  he  finds  his  soul  oppressed  with 
the  heavy  guilt  of  a  sin,  he  gives  it  vent  thorough  his 
mouth  into  the  ear  of  his  spiritual  Physician,  from  whom 
he  receives  cordials  answerable  to  his  complaint.  He  is 
a  severe  exactor  of  discipline,  first  upon  himself,  on  whom 
he  imposes  more  than  one  lent ;  then  upon  others,  as  one 
that  vowed  to  be  revenged  on  sin  wheresoever  he  finds 
it :  and  though  but  one  hath  offended  him,  yet  his  de¬ 
testation  is  universal.  He  is  his  own  task-master  for  de¬ 
votion  ;  and  if  Christianity  have  any  work  more  difficult 
or  perilous  than  other,  that  he  enjoins  himself,  and  re¬ 
solves  contentment  even  in  miscarriage.  It  is  no  marvel 
if  the  acquaintance  of  his  wilder  times  know  him  not,  for 
he  is  quite  another  from  himself ;  and  if  his  mind  could 
have  had  any  intermission  of  dwelling  within  his  breast, 
it  could  not  have  known  this  was  the  lodging.  Nothing 
but  an  outside  is  the  same  it  was  ;  and  that  altered  more 
with  regeneration,  than  with  age.  None  but  he  can 
relish  the  promises  of  the  gospel ;  which  he  finds  so  sweet 
that  he  complains  not  his  thirst  after  them  is  unsatiable  ; 
and  now  that  he  hath  found  his  Saviour,  he  hugs  him  so 
fast,  and  holds  him  so  dear,  that  he  feels  not  when  his 
life  is  fetched  away  from  him,  for  his  martyrdom.  The 
latter  part  of  his  life  is  so  led,  as  if  he  desired  to  unlive 
his  youth  ;  and  his  last  testament  is  full  of  restitutions 
and  legacies  of  piety.  In  sum,  he  hath  so  lived  and  died, 
as  that  Satan  hath  no  such  match,  sin  hath  no  such  ene¬ 
my,  God  hath  no  such  servant,  as  he. 


204 


CHARACTERI  SMS  OF  VIRTUES. 


OF  THE  HAPPY  MAN. 

He  is  an  happy  man  that  hath  learned  to  read  him¬ 
self  more  than  all  books,  and  hath  so  taken  out  this  les¬ 
son  that  he  can  never  forget  it :  that  knows  the  world, 
and  cares  not  for  it :  that  after  many  traverses  of  thoughts 
is  grown  to  know  what  he  may  trust  to,  and  stands  now 
equally  armed  for  all  events  :  that  hath  got  the  mastery 
at  home,  so  as  he  can  cross  his  will  without  a  mutiny ; 
and  so  please  it,  that  he  makes  it  not  a  wanton  :  that  in 
earthly  things,  wishes  no  more  than  nature  ;  in  spiritual, 
is  ever  graciously  ambitious :  that  for  his  condition, 
stands  on  his  own  feet,  not  needing  to  lean  upon  the 
great ;  and  can  so  frame  his  thoughts  to  his  estate,  that 
when  he  hath  least  he  cannot  want,  because  he  is  as  free 
from  desire  as  superfluity :  that  hath  seasonably  broken 
the  headstrong  restiness  of  prosperity,  and  can  now  ma¬ 
nage  it  at  pleasure  :  upon  whom  all  smaller  crosses  light 
as  hailstones  upon  a  roof ;  and  for  the  greater  calamities, 
he  can  take  them  as  tributes  of  life  and  tokens  of  love ; 
and  if  his  ship  be  tossed,  yet  he  is  sure  his  anchor  is 
fast.  If  all  the  world  were  his,  he  could  be  no  other  than 
he  is ;  no  whit  gladder  of  himself,  no  whit  higher  in  his 
carriage  ;  because  he  knows  contentment  lies  not  in  the 
things  he  hath,  but  in  the  mind  that  values  them.  The 
powers  of  his  resolution  can  either  multiply  or  subtract, 
at  pleasure.  He  can  make  his  cottage  a  manor  or  a 
palace  when  he  lists  ;  and  his  home-close,  a  large  domin¬ 
ion  ;  his  stained  cloth,  arras ;  his  earth,  plate ;  and  can 
see  state  in  the  attendance  of  one  servant — as  one  that 
hath  learned,  a  man’s  greatness  or  baseness  is  in  himself; 


THE  HAPPY  MAN. 


205 


and  in  this,  he  may  even  contest  with  the  proud,  that  he 
thinks  his  own  the  best.  Or,  if  he  must  be  outwardly 
great,  he  can  but  turn  the  other  end  of  the  glass,  and 
make  his  stately  manor  a  low  and  strait  cottage  ;  and  in 
all  his  costly  furniture,  he  can  see  not  richness  but  use  ; 
he  can  see  dross  in  the  best  metal,  and  earth  thorough 
the  best  clothes  ;  and  in  all  his  troop,  he  can  see  himself 
his  own  servant.  He  lives  quietly  at  home,  out  of  the 
noise  of  the  world,  and  loves  to  enjoy  himself  always, 
and  sometimes  his  friend  ;  and  hath  as  full  scope  to  his 
thoughts,  as  to  his  eyes.  He  walks  ever  even,  in  the 
mid-way  betwixt  hopes  and  fears,  resolved  to  fear  nothing 
but  God,  to  hope  for  nothing  but  that  which  he  must 
have.  He  hath  a  wise  and  virtuous  mind  in  a  servicea¬ 
ble  body  ;  which  that  better  part  affects  as  a  present  ser¬ 
vant  and  a  future  companion — so  cherishing  his  flesh,  as 
one  that  would  scorn  to  be  all  flesh.  He  hath  no  ene¬ 
mies  ;  not  for  that  all  love  him,  but  because  he  knows 
to  make  a  gain  of  malice.  He  is  not  so  engaged  to  any 
earthly  thing  that  they  two  cannot  part  on  even  terms — 
there  is  neither  laughter  in  their  meeting,  nor  in  their 
shaking  of  hands,  tears.  He  keeps  ever  the  best  com¬ 
pany,  the  God  of  spirits,  and  the  spirits  of  that  God, 
whom  he  entertains  continually  in  an  awful  familiarity ; 
not  being  hindered  either  with  too  much  light  or  with 
none  at  all. 

His  conscience  and  his  hand  are  friends,  and — what 
devil  soever  tempt  him — will  not  fall  out.  That  divine 
part  goes  ever  uprightly  and  freely,  not  stooping  under 
the  burden  of  a  willing  sin,  not  fettered  with  the  gyves 
of  unjust  scruples.  He  would  not,  if  he  could,  run  away 
from  himself  or  from  God ;  not  caring  from  whom  he 


206  CHAKACTEEISMS  OF  VIRTUES. 


lies  hid,  so  he  may  look  these  two  in  the  face.  Censures 
and  applauses  are  passengers  to  him,  not  guests  :  his  ear 
is  their  thoroughfare,  not  their  harbor :  he  hath  learned 
to  fetch  both  his  counsel  and  his  sentence  from  his  own 
breast.  He  doth  not  lay  weight  upon  his  own  shoulders 
as  one  that  loves  to  torment  himself  with  the  honor  of 
much  employment ;  but  as  he  makes  work  his  game,  so 
doth  he  not  list  to  make  himself  work.  His  strife  is 
ever  to  redeem,  and  not  to  spend,  time.  It  is  his  trade 
to  do  good  ;  and  to  think  of  it,  his  recreation.  He  hath 
hands  enow  for  himself  and  others,  which  are  ever 
stretched  forth  for  beneficence,  not  for  need.  He  walks 
cheerfully  in  the  way  that  God  hath  chalked,  and  never 
wishes  it  more  wide  or  more  smooth.  Those  very  ten- 
tations  whereby  he  is  foiled,  strengthen  him  :  he  comes 
forth  crowned  and  triumphing  out  of  the  spiritual  bat¬ 
tles  ;  and  those  scars  that  he  hath,  make  him  beautiful. 
His  soul  is  every  day  dilated  to  receive  that  God  in 
whom  he  is ;  and  hath  attained  to  love  himself  for  God, 
and  God  for  His  own  sake.  His  eyes  stick  so  fast  in 
heaven,  that  no  earthly  object  can  remove  them ;  yea, 
his  whole  self  is  there  before  his  time,  and  sees  with 
Stephen,  and  hears  with  Paul,  and  enjoys  with  Lazarus, 
the  glory  that  he  shall  have ;  and  takes  possession  be¬ 
fore-hand  of  his  room  amongst  the  saints ;  and  these 
heavenly  contentments  have  so  taken  him  up,  that  now 
he  looks  down  displeasedly  upon  the  earth  as  the  region 
of  his  sorrow  and  banishment ;  yet  joying  more  in  hope 
than  troubled  with  the  sense  of  evils,  he  holds  it  no  great 
matter  to  live,  and  his  greatest  business  to  die ;  and  is 
so  well  acquainted  with  his  last  guest,  that  he  fears  no 
unkindness  from  him :  neither  makes  he  any  other  of 


THE  HAPPY  MAN. 


207 


dying,  than  of  walking  home  when  he  is  abroad,  or  of 
going  to  bed  when  he  is  weary  of  the  day.  He  is  well 
provided  for  both  worlds,  and  is  sure  of  peace  here,  of 
glory  hereafter  ;  and  therefore  hath  a  light  heart  and  a 
cheerful  face.  All  his  fellow  creatures  rejoice  to  serve 
him  ;  his  betters,  the  angels,  love  to  observe  him  ;  God 
himself  takes  pleasure  to  converse  with  him,  and  hath 
sainted  him  afore  his  death,  and  in  his  death  crowned 
him. 


l 


BOOK  II. 


CHARACTERISMS  OE  VICES. 


/ 


THE  PROEM. 

I  have  showed  you  many  fair  virtues.  I  speak  not 
for  them.  If  their  sight  cannot  command  affection,  let 
them  lose  it.  They  shall  please  yet  better,  after  you 
have  troubled  your  eyes  a  little  with  the  view  of  deform¬ 
ities  :  and  by  how  much  more  they  please,  so  much  more 
odious  and  like  themselves,  shall  these  deformities  ap¬ 
pear.  This  light  contraries  give  to  each  other,  in  the 
midst  of  their  enmity, — that  one  makes  the  other  seem 
more  good  or  ill. 

Perhaps  in  some  of  these — which  thing  I  do  at  once 
fear  and  hate — my  style  shall  seem  to  some  less  grave, 
more  satirical.  If  you  find  me,  not  without  cause,  jeal¬ 
ous,  let  it  please  you  to  impute  it  to  the  nature  of  those 
vices,  which  will  not  be  otherwise  handled.  The  fash¬ 
ions  of  some  evils,  are — besides  the  odiousness — ridicu¬ 
lous  ;  which  to  repeat,  is  to  seem  bitterly  merry.  I  ab¬ 
hor  to  make  sport  with  wickedness ;  and  forbid  any 
laughter  here,  but  of  disdain. 


I 


THE  HYPOCRITE.  209’ 

Hypocrisy  shall  lead  this  ring ;  worthily,  I  think,  be¬ 
cause  both  she  cometh  nearest  to  virtue,  and  is  the  worst 
of  vices. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HYPOCRITE'. 

An  hypocrite  is  the  worst  kind  of  player,  by  so  much 
as  he  acts  the  better  part :  which  hath  always  two  faces,, 
ofttimes  two  hearts :  that  can  compose  his  forehead  to 
sadness  and  gravity,  while  he  bids  his  heart  be  wanton 
and  careless  within  ;  and  in  the  meantime  laughs  within 
himself  to  think  how  smoothly  he  hath  cozened  the  be¬ 
holder  :  in  whose  silent  face  are  written  the  characters 
of  religion,  which  his  tongue  and  gestures  pronounce, 
but  his  hands  recant :  that  hath  a  clean  face  and  gar¬ 
ment,  with  a  foul  soul :  whose  mouth  belies  his  heart, 
and  his  fingers  belie  his  mouth.  Walking  early  up  into 
the  city,  he  turns  into  the  great  church,  and  salutes  one 
of  the  pillars  on  one  knee — worshiping  that  God  which 
at  home  he  cares  not  for, — while  his  eye  is  fixed  on  some 
window  or  some  passenger,  and  his  heart  knows  not 
whither  his  lips  go.  He  rises,  and  looking  about  with 
admiration,  complains  on  our  frozen  charity,  commends 
the  ancient.  At  church,  he  will  ever  sit  where  he  may 
be  seen  best,  and  in  the  middest  of  the  sermon  pulls  out 
his  tables  in  haste,  as  if  he  feared  to  leese  that  note ; 
when  he  writes  either  his  forgotten  errand  or  nothing : 
then  he  turns  his  Bible  with  a  noise,  to  seek  an  omitted 
quotation,  and  folds  the  leaf  as  if  he  had  found  it ;  and 
asks  aloud  the  name  of  the  preacher,  and  repeats  it ; 

whom  he  publicly  salutes,  thanks,  praises,  invites,  en- 

14 


210 


CHARACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


tertains  with  tedious  good  counsel,  with  good  discourse, 
— if  it  had  come  from  an  honester  mouth.  He  can 
command  tears  when  he  speaks  of  his  youth,  indeed 
because  it  is  past,  not  because  it  was  sinful — himself  is 
now  better  but  the  times  are  worse.  All  other  sins  he 
reckons  up  with  detestation,  while  he  loves  and  hides  his 
darling  in  his  bosom.  All  his  speech  returns  to  himself 
and  every  occurrent  draws  in  a  story  to  his  own  praise. 
When  he  should  give,  he  looks  about  him  and  says  ‘  Who 
sees  me  ?’  No  alms,  no  prayers,  fall  from  him  without 
a  witness — belike  lest  God  should  deny  that  He  hath 
received  them :  and  when  he  hath  done,  lest  the  world 
should  not  know  it,  his  own  mouth  is  his  trumpet  to  pro¬ 
claim  it.  With  the  superfluity  of  his  usury,  he  builds 
an  hospital,  and  harbors  them  whom  his  extortion  hath 
spoiled ;  so  while  he  makes  many  beggars,  he  keeps 
some.  Pie  turneth  all  gnats  into  camels,  and  cares  not 
to  undo  the  world  for  a  circumstance.  Flesh  on  a  Fri¬ 
day,  is  more  abomination  to  him  than  his  neighbor’s  bed. 
He  abhors  more  not  to  uncover  at  the  name  of  Jesus, 
than  to  swear  by  the  name  of  God.  When  a  rhymer 
reads  his  poem  to  him,  he  begs  a  copy  and  persuades  the 
press.  There  is  nothing  that  he  dislikes  in  presence, 
that  in  absence  he  censures  not.  Pie  comes  to  the  sick 
bed  of  his  step-mother,  and  weeps,  when  he  secretly 
fears  her  recovery.  He  greets  his  friend  in  the  street, 
with  so  clear  a  countenance,  so  fast  a  closure,  that  the 
other  thinks  he  reads  his  heart  in  his  face  ;  and  shakes 
hands  with  an  indefinite  invitation  of  1  When  will  you 
come  ?’ — and  when  his  back  is  turned,  joys  that  he  is  so 
well  rid  of  a  guest ;  yet  if  that  guest  visit  him  unfeared, 
he  counterfeits  a  smiling  welcome,  and  excuses  his  cheer, 


THE  BUS  Y-B  ODY. 


211 


when  closely  he  frowns  on  his  wife  for  too  much.  He 
shows  well,  and  says  well ;  and  himself  is  the  worst  thing 
he  hath.  In  brief,  he  is  the  stranger’s  saint,  the  neigh¬ 
bor’s  disease,  the  blot  of  goodness,  a  rotten  stick  in  a 
dark  night,  a  poppy  in  a  corn-field,  an  ill-tempered  can¬ 
dle  with  a  great  snuff — that  in  going  out  smells  ill ;  and 
an  angel  abroad,  a  devil  at  home  ;  and  worse  when  an 
angel,  than  when  a  devil. 


OF  THE  BUSY-BODY. 

His  estate  is  too  narrow  for  his  mind,  and  therefore 
he  is  fain  to  make  himself  room  in  others’  affairs — yet 
ever  in  pretence  of  love.  No  news  can  stir  but  by  his 
door ;  neither  can  he  know  that  which  he  must  not  tell. 
What  every  man  ventures  in  Guiana  voyage,  and  what 
they  gained  he  knows  to  a  hair.  Whether  Holland  will 
have  peace  he  knows  ;  and  on  what  conditions,  and  with 
what  success,  is  familiar  to  him  ere  it  be  concluded.  No 
post  can  pass  him  without  a  question  ;  and  rather  than  he 
shall  leese  the  news,  he  rides  back  with  him  to  appose 
him  of  tidings,  and  then  to  the  next  man  he  meets,  he 
supplies  the  wants  of  his  hasty  intelligence,  and  makes 
up  a  perfect  tale  ;  wherewith  he  so  haunteth  the  patient 
auditor,  that,  after  many  excuses,  he  is  fain  to  endure 
rather  the  censure  of  his  manners  in  running  away,  than 
the  tediousness  of  an  impertinent  discourse.  His  speech 
is  oft  broken  off  with  a  succession  of  long  parentheses, 
which  he  ever  vows  to  fill  up  ere  the  conclusion,  and 
perhaps  would  effect  it,  if  the  other’s  ear  were  as  un- 
weariable  as  his  tongue.  If  he  see  but  two  men  talk  and 
read  a  letter  in  the  street,  he  runs  to  them  and  asks  them 


212  CHARACTEKISMS  OF  VICES. 


if  he  may  not  be  partner  of  that  secret  relation  ;  and  if 
they  deny  it,  he  offers  to  tell,  since  he  may  not  hear, 
wonders  :  and  then  falls  upon  the  report  of  the  Scottish 
mine,  or  of  the  great  fish  taken  up  at  Lynn,  or  of  the 
freezing  of  the  Thames ;  and  after  many  thanks  and 
dismissions,  is  hardly  entreated  silence.  He  undertakes 
as  much  as  he  performs  little.  This  man  will  thrust 
himself  forward  to  be  the  guide  of  the  way  he  knows 
not ;  and  calls  at  his  neighbor’s  window  and  asks  why  his 
servants  are  not  at  work.  The  market  hath  no  com¬ 
modity  which  he  prizeth  not,  and  which  the  next  table 
shall  not  hear  recited.  His  tongue,  like  the  tail  of  Sam¬ 
son’s  foxes,  carries  fire-brands,  and  is  enough  to  set  the 
whole  field  of  the  world  on  a  flame.  Himself  begins  ta¬ 
ble-talk  of  his  neighbor  at  another’s  board  ;  to  whom  he 
bears  the  first  news,  and  adjures  him  to  conceal  the  re¬ 
porter:  whose  choleric  answer  he  returns  to  his  first 
host,  enlarged  with  a  second  edition  ;  so,  as  it  uses  to  be 
done  in  the  fight  of  unwilling  mastiffs,  he  claps  each  on 
the  side  apart,  and  provokes  them  to  an  eager  conflict. 
There  can  no  act  pass  without  his  comment,  which  is 
ever  far-fetched,  rash,  suspicious,  dilatory.  His  ears 
are  long  and  his  eyes  quick ;  but  most  of  all  to  imper¬ 
fections — which,  as  he  easily  sees,  so  he  increaseth  with 
intermeddling.  He  harbors  another  man’s  servant,  and 
amidst  his  entertainment,  asks  what  fare  is  usual  at  home, 
what  hours  are  kept,  what  talk  passeth  their  meals,  what 
his  master’s  disposition  is,  what  his  government,  what 
his  guests.  And  when  he  hath,  by  curious  inquiries, 
extracted  all  the  juice  and  spirit  of  hoped  intelligence, 
turns  him  off  whence  he  came,  and  works  on  a  new. 
He  hates  constancy,  as  an  earthen  dullness,  unfit  for 


THE  SUPERSTITIOUS. 


213 


men  of  spirit ;  and  loves  to  change  his  work  and  his 
place  :  neither  yet  can  he  be  so  soon  weary  of  any  place, 
as  every  place  is  weary  of  him ;  for  as  he  sets  himself 
on  work,  so  others  pay  him  with  hatred ;  and  look,  how 
many  masters  he  hath,  so  many  enemies ;  neither  is  it 
possible  that  any  should  not  hate  him,  but  who  know  him 
not.  So  then  he  labors  without  thanks,  talks  without 
credit,  lives  without  love,  dies  without  tears,  without 
pity — save  that  some  say  it  was  a  pity  he  died  no 
sooner. 


OF  THE  SUPERSTITIOUS. 

Superstition  is  godless  religion,  devout  Impiety.  The 
Superstitious  is  fond  in  observation,  servile  in  fear.  He 
worships  God  but  as  he  lists :  he  gives  God  what  He 
asks  not,  more  than  He  asks,  and  all  but  what  he  should 
give  ;  and  makes  more  sins  than  the  ten  commandments. 
This  man  dares  not  stir  forth  till  his  breast  be  crossed 
and  his  face  sprinkled.  If  but  an  hare  cross  him  the 
way,  he  returns  ;  or  if  his  journey  began  unawares  on 
the  dismal  day ;  or  if  he  stumble  at  the  threshold.  If 
ho  see  a  snake  unkilled,  he  fears  a  mischief :  if  the  salt 
fall  towards  him,  he  looks  pale  and  red,  and  is  not  quiet 
till  one  of  the  waiters  have  poured  wine  on  his  lap  ;  and 
when  he  neezeth,  thinks  them  not  his  friends  that  un¬ 
cover  not.  In  the  morning,  he  listens  whether  the  crow 
crieth  even  or  odd,  and  by  that  token  presages  of  the 
weather.  If  he  hear  but  a  raven  croak  from  the  next 
roof,  he  makes  his  will ;  or  if  a  bittour  fly  over  his  head 
by  night :  but  if  his  troubled  fancy  shall  second  his 
thoughts  with  the  dream  of  a  fair  garden,  or  green  rush- 


214 


CHAR  ACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


es,  or  the  salutation  of  a  dead  friend,  he  takes  leave  of 
the  world,  and  says  he  cannot  live.  He  will  never  set 
to  sea  but  on  a  Sunday  ;  neither  ever  goes  without  an 
c  Erra  Pater  ’  in  his  pocket.  Saint  Paul’s  day,  and 
Saint  Swithune’s,  with  the  twelve,  are  his  oracles  ;  which 
he  dares  believe,  against  the  almanac.  When  he  lies 
sick  on  his  death-bed,  no  sin  troubles  him  so  much  as 
that  he  did  once  eat  flesh  on  a  Friday.  No  repentance 
can  expiate  that;  the  rest  need  none.  There  is  no¬ 
dream  of  his  without  an  interpretation,  without  a  pre¬ 
diction  :  and  if  the  event  answer  not  his  exposition,  he 
expounds  it  according  to  the  event.  Every  dark  grove 
and  pictured  wall  strikes  him  with  an  awful,  but  carnal, 
devotion.  Old  wives  and  stars  are  his  counsellors,  his 
night-spell  is  his  guard  ;  and  charms,  his  physicians.  He 
wears  Paracelsian  characters  for  the  tooth-ache,  and  a 
little  hallowed  wax  is  his  antidote  for  all  evils.  This 
man  is  strangely  credulous  ;  and  calls  impossible  things, 
miraculous.  If  he  hear  that  some  sacred  block  speaks, 
moves,  weeps,  smiles,  his  bare  feet  carry  him  thither 
with  an  offering ;  and  if  a  danger  miss  him  in  the  way, 
his  saint  hath  the  thanks.  Some  ways  he  will  not  go 
and  some  he  dares  not — either  there  are  bugs  or  he 
feigneth  them  ;  every  lantern  is  a  ghost,  and  every  noise 
is  of  chains.  He  knows  not  why,  but  his  custom  is  to 
go  a  little  about,  and  to  leave  the  cross  still  on  the  right 
hand.  One  event  is  enough  to  make  a  rule :  out  of 
these  he  concludes  fashions  proper  to  himself ;  and  no¬ 
thing  can  turn  him  out  of  his  own  course.  If  he  have 
done  his  task,  he  is  safe ;  it  matters  not  with  what  affec¬ 
tion.  Finally,  if  God  would  let  him  be  the  carver  of  his 


THE  PROFANE. 


215 


own  obedience,  He  could  not  have  a  better  subject ;  as 
he  is,  He  cannot  have  a  worse. 


OF  THE  PROFANE. 

The  superstitious  hath  too  many  gods  :  the  profane 
man  hath  none  at  all,  unless  perhaps  himself  be  his  own 
deity,  and  the  world  his  heaven.  To  matter  of  religion, 
his  heart  is  a  piece  of  dead  flesh,  without  feeling  of  love, 
of  fear,  of  care,  or  of  pain  from  the  deaf  strokes  of  a  re¬ 
venging  conscience.  Custom  of  sin  hath  wrought  this 
senselessness  ;  which  now  hath  been  so  long  entertained, 
that  it  pleads  prescription,  and  knows  not  to  be  altered. 
This  is  no  sudden  evil :  we  are  born  sinful,  but  have 
made  ourselves  profane.  Through  many  degrees,  we 
climb  to  this  height  of  impiety.  At  first,  he  sinned  and 
cared  not :  now,  he  sinneth  and  knoweth  not.  Appetite 
is  his  lord,  and  reason  his  servant,  and  religion  his 
drudge.  Sense  is  the  rule  of  his  belief ;  and  if  piety 
may  be  an  advantage,  he  can  at  once  counterfeit  and  de¬ 
ride  it.  When  aught  succeedeth  to  him,  he  sacrifices  to 
his  nets,  and  thanks  either  his  fortune  or  his  wit ;  and 
will  rather  make  a  false  god,  than  acknowledge  the  true  : 
if  contrary,  he  cries  out  of  destiny,  and  blames  Plim  to 
whom  he  will  not  be  beholden.  His  conscience  would 
fain  speak  with  him,  but  he  will  not  hear  it ;  sets  the 
day  but  he  disappoints  it ;  and  when  it  cries  aloud  for 
audience,  he  drowns  the  noise  with  good-fellowship.  Pie 
never  names  God,  but  in  his  oaths ;  never  thinks  of 
Him,  but  in  extremity  ;  and  then  he  knows  not  how  to 
think  of  Him,  because  he  begins  but  then.  He  quarrels 
for  the  hard  conditions  of  his  pleasure,  for  his  future  dam- 

I 


.•216 


CIIARACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


nation ;  and  from  himself,  lays  all  the  fault  upon  his  Ma¬ 
ker,  and  from  his  decree  fetcheth  excuses  of  his  wicked¬ 
ness.  The  inevitable  necessity  of  God’s  counsel  makes 
him  desperately  careless ;  so  with  good  food  he  poisons 
himself.  Goodness  is  his  minstrel ;  neither  is  any  mirth 
so  cordial  to  him  as  his  sport  with  God’s  fools.  Every 
virtue  hath  his  slander  and  his  jest,  to  laugh  it  out  of  fash¬ 
ion  ;  every  vice,  his  color.  His  usualest  theme  is  the 
boast  of  his  young  sins,  which  he  can  still  joy  in,  though 
he  cannot  commit ;  and,  if  it  may  be,  his  speech  makes 
him  worse  than  he  is.  He  cannot  think  of  death  with 
patience,  without  terror;  which  he  therefore  fears  worse 
than  hell,  because  this  he  is  sure  of,  the  other  he  but 
doubts  of.  He  comes  to  church  as  to  the  theatre — sav¬ 
ing  that  not  so  willingly — for  company,  for  custom,  for 
recreation,  perhaps  for  sleep,  or  to  feed  his  eyes  or  his 
ears :  as  for  his  soul,  he  cares  no  more  than  if  he  had 
none.  He  loves  none  but  himself,  and  that  not  enough 
to  seek  his  true  good ;  neither  cares  he  on  whom  he 
reads,  that  he  may  rise.  His  life  is  full  of  license,  and 
his  practice,  of  outrage.  He  is  hated  of  God  as  much 
as  he  hateth  goodness ;  and  differs  little  from  a  devil, 
but  that  he  hath  a  body. 


OF  THE  MALCONTENT. 

He  is  neither  well,  full  nor  fasting;  and  though  he 
abound  with  complaints,  yet  nothing  dislikes  him  but 
the  present :  for  what  he  condemned  while  it  was,  once 
past  he  magnifies,  and  strives  to  recall  it  out  of  the  jaws 
of  Time.  What  he  hath,  he  seeth  not,  his  eyes  are  so 
taken  up  with  what  he  wants  ;  and  what  he  sees,  he  cares 


OF  THE  MALCONTENT. 


217 


not  for,  because  he  cares  so  much  for  that  which  is  not. 
When  his  friend  carves  him  the  best  morsel,  he  mur¬ 
murs  that  it  is  an  happy  feast  wherein  each  one  may  cut 
for  himself.  When  a  present  is  sent  him,  he  asks,  4  Is 
this  all  ?’  and  4  What,  no  better  ?’  and  so  accepts  it,  as  if 
he  would  have  his  friend  know  how  much  he  is  bound 
to  him  for  vouchsafing  to  receive  it.  It  is  hard  to  en¬ 
tertain  him  with  a  proportionable  gift.  If  nothing,  he 
cries  out  of  unthankfulness ;  if  little,  that  he  is  basely 
regarded  ;  if  much,  he  exclaims  of  flattery,  and  expecta¬ 
tion  of  a  large  requital.  Every  blessing  hath  some¬ 
what  to  disparage  and  distaste  it : — children  bring  cares  ; 
single  life  is  wild  and  solitary  ;  eminency  is  envious ; 
retiredness,  obscure ;  fasting,  painful ;  satiety,  unwieldy  ; 
religion,  nicely  severe ;  liberty  is  lawless ;  wealth, 
burdensome ;  mediocrity,  contemptible.  Everything 
faulteth,  either  in  too  much  or  too  little.  This  man  is 
ever  headstrong  and  self-willed,  neither  is  he  always 
tied  to  esteem  or  pronounce  according  to  reason  :  some 
things  he  must  dislike,  he  knows  not  wherefore,  but  he 
likes  them  not :  and  other-wliere,  rather  than  not  censure, 
he  will  accuse  a  man  of  virtue.  Everything  he  med- 
dleth  with,  he  either  findeth  imperfect,  or  maketh  so ; 
neither  is  there  anything  that  soundeth  so  harsh  in  his 
ear,  as  the  commendation  of  another ;  whereto  yet  per¬ 
haps  he  fashionably  and  coldly  assenteth,  but  with  such 
an  after-clause  of  exception,  as  doth  more  than  mar  his 
former  allowance ;  and  if  he  list  not  to  give  a  verbal 
disgrace,  yet  he  shakes  his  head  and  smiles,  as  if  his  si¬ 
lence  should  say,  4 1  could,  and  will  not.’  And  when 
himself  is  praised  without  excess,  he  complains  that  such 
imperfect  kindness  hath  not  done  him  right.  If  but  an 


218 


GH  ARACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


unseasonable  shower  cross  his  recreation,  he  is  ready  to 
fall  out  with  heaven ;  and  thinks  he  is  wronged,  if  God 
will  not  take  his  times  when  to  rain,  when  to  shine. 
He  is  a  slave  to  envy,  and  loseth  flesh  with  fretting,  not 
so  much  at  his  own  infelicity,  as  at  others’  good  :  nei¬ 
ther  hath  he  leisure  to  joy  in  his  own  blessings,  whilst 
another  prospereth.  Fain  would  he  see  some  mutinies, 
but  dares  not  raise  them ;  and  suffers  his  lawless  tongue 
to  walk  thorough  the  dangerous  paths  of  conceited  alter¬ 
cations  ;  but  so,  as  in  good  manners,  he  had  rather 
thrust  every  man  before  him  when  it  comes  to  acting. 
Nothing  but  fear  keeps  him  from  conspiracies  :  and  no 
man  is  more  cruel,  when  he  is  not  manacled  with  dan¬ 
ger.  He  speaks  nothing  but  satires  and  libels,  and 
lodgeth  no  guests  in  his  heart,  but  rebels.  The  incon¬ 
stant  and  he  agree  well  in  their  felicity,  which  both 
place  in  change ;  but  herein  they  differ — the  inconstant 
man  affects  that  which  will  be ;  the  malcontent  com¬ 
monly,  that  which  was.  Finally,  he  is  a  querulous 
cur,  whom  no  horse  can  pass  by  without  barking  at ; 
yea,  in  the  deep  silence  of  night,  the  very  moonshine 
openeth  his  clamorous  mouth.  He  is  the  wheel  of  a 
well-couched  fire-work,  that  flies  out  on  all  sides,  not 
without  scorching  itself.  Every  ear  is  long  ago  wea¬ 
ry  of  him,  and  he  is  now  almost  weary  of  himself. 
Give  him  but  a  little  respite,  and  he  will  die  alone,  of 
no  other  death  than  others’  welfare. 


OF  THE  UNCONSTANT. 

The  inconstant  man  treads  upon  a  moving  earth  and 
keeps  no  pace.  His  proceedings  are  ever  heady  and 


THE  UNCONSTANT. 


219 


peremptory ;  for  he  hath  not  the  patience  to  consult 
with  reason,  but  determines  merely  upon  fancy.  No 
man  is  so  hot  in  the  pursuit  of  what  he  liketh  ;  no  man 
sooner  weary.  He  is  fiery  in  his  passions,  which  yet 
are  not  more  violent  than  momentary.  It  is  a  wonder 
if  his  love  or  hatred  last  so  many  days  as  a  wonder* 
His  heart  is  the  inn  of  all  good  motions,  wherein  if  they 
lodge  for  a  night,  it  is  well :  by  morning,  they  are  gone, 
and  take  no  leave  ;  and  if  they  come  that  way  again, 
they  are  entertained  as  guests,  not  as  friends.  At  first, 
like  another  Eeebolius,  he  loved  simple  truth ;  thence 
diverting  his  eyes,  he  fell  in  love  with  idolatry.  Those 
heathenish  shrines  had  never  any  more  doting  and  be¬ 
sotted  client ;  and  now,  of  late,  he  has  leaped  from 
Rome  to  Munster,  and  is  grown  to  giddy  anabaptism* 
What  he  will  be  next,  as  yet  he  knoweth  not ;  but  ere 
he  have  wintered  his  opinion,  it  will  be  manifest.  He 
is  good  to  make  an  enemy  of ;  ill  for  a  friend ;  because, 
as  there  is  no  trust  in  his  affection,  so  no  rancour  in  his 
displeasure.  The  multitude  of  his  changed  purposes 
brings  with  it  forgetfulness,  and  not  of  others  more  than 
of  himself.  He  says,  swears,  renounces ;  because  what 
he  promised,  he  meant  not  long  enough  to*  make  an  im¬ 
pression.  Herein  alone  he  is  good  for  a  commonwealth, 
that  he  sets  many  on  work  with  building,  ruining,  altering ; 
and  makes  more  business  than  time  itself :  neither  is  he 
a  greater  enemy  to  thrift,  than  to  idleness.  Propriety 
is  to  him  enough  cause  of  dislike — each  thing  pleases 
him  better  that  is  not  his  own.  Even  in  the  best  things, 
long  continuance  is  a  just  quarrel.  Manna  itself  grows 
tedious  with  age,  and  novelty  is  the  highest  style  of  com¬ 
mendation  to  the  meanest  offers  ;  neither  doth  he  in  books 


220 


CHARACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


and  fashions,  ask  ‘  How  good  ?’  but  ‘  How  new  ?’  Varie¬ 
ty  carries  him  away  with  delight ;  and  no  uniform  pleasure 
can  be  without  an  irksome  fullness.  He  is  so  transform¬ 
able  into  all  opinions,  manners,  qualities,  that  he  seems 
rather  made  immediately  of  the  first  matter,  than  of  well- 
tempered  elements  ;  and  therefore  is  in  possibility  any¬ 
thing  or  everything — nothing  is  present  substance.  Fi¬ 
nally,  he  is  servile  in  imitation,  waxy  to  persuasions, 
witty  to  wrong  himself,  a  guest  in  his  own  house,  an  ape 
of  others,  and,  in  a  word,  anything  rather  than  himself. 


OF  THE  FLATTERER. 

Flattery  is  nothing  but  false  friendship,  fawning  hy¬ 
pocrisy,  dishonest  civility,  base  merchandise  of  words,  a 
plausible  discord  of  the  heart  and  lips.  The  flatterer  is 
blear-eyed  to  ill,  and  cannot  see  vices ;  and  his  tongue 
walks  ever  in  one  track  of  unjust  praises,  and  can  no 
more  tell  how  to  discommend,  than  to  speak  true.  His 
speeches  are  full  of  wondering  interjections,  and  all  his 
titles  are  superlative,  and  both  of  them  seldom  ever  but 
in  presence.  His  base  mind  is  well-matched  with  a 
mercenary  tongue,  which  is  a  willing  slave  to  another 
man’s  ear ;  neither  regardeth  he  how  true,  but  how  pleas¬ 
ing.  His  art  is  nothing  but  delightful  cozenage,  whose 
rules  are  smoothing  and  guarded  with  perjury ;  whose 
scope  is  to  make  men  fools,  in  teaching  them  to  over¬ 
value  themselves ;  and  to  tickle  his  friends  to  death. 
This  man  is  a  porter  of  all  good  tales,  and  mends  them 
in  the  carriage  :  one  of  Fame’s  best  friends  and  his  own, 
that  helps  to  furnish  her  with  those  rumors  that  may  advan¬ 
tage  himself.  Conscience  hath  no  greater  adversary ; 


THE  FLATTERER. 


221 


for  when  she  is  about  to  play  her  just  part  of  accusation, 
he  stops  her  mouth  with  good  terms,  and  well-near 
strangleth  her  with  shifts.  Like  that  subtil  fish,  he 
turns  himself  into  the  color  of  every  stone,  for  a  booty. 
In  himself,  he  is  nothing  but  what  pleaseth  his  great-one  ; 
whose  virtues  he  cannot  more  extol  than  imitate  his  im¬ 
perfections,  that  he  may  think  his  worst  graceful.  Let 
him  say  it  is  hot,  he  wipes  his  forehead  and  unbraceth 
himself ;  if  cold,  he  shivers  and  calls  for  a  warmer  gar¬ 
ment.  When  he  walks  with  his  friend,  he  swears  to 
him  that  no  man  else  is  looked  at,  no  man  talked  of ;  and 
that  whomsoever  he  vouchsafes  to  look  on  and  nod  to, 
is  graced  enough ;  that  he  knows  not  his  own  worth,  lest 
he  should  be  too  happy :  and  when  he  tells  what  others 
say  in  his  praise,  he  interrupts  himself  modestly,  and 
dares  not  speak  the  rest — so  his  concealment  is  more 
insinuating  than  his  speech.  He  hangs  upon  the  lips 
which  he  admireth,  as  if  they  could  let  fall  nothing  but 
oracles ;  and  finds  occasion  to  cite  some  approved 
sentence,  under  the  name  he  honoreth ;  and  when 
aught  is  nobly  spoken,  both  his  hands  are  little  enough 
to  bless  him.  Sometimes  even  in  absence,  he  extolleth 
his  patron,  where  he  may  presume  of  safe  conveyance 
to  his  ears ;  and  in  presence,  so  whispereth  his  commen¬ 
dation  to  a  common  friend,  that  it  may  not  be  unheard 
where  he  meant  it.  He  hath  salves  for  every  sore,  to 
hide  them,  not  to  heal  them  :  complexion  for  every  face. 
Sin  hath  not  any  more  artificial  broker  or  more  impudent 
bawd.  There  is  no  vice  that  hath  not  from  him  his 
color,  his  allurement;  and  his  best  service  is,  either 
to  further  guiltiness,  or  smother  it.  If  he  grant  evil 
things  inexpedient,  or  crimes  errors,  he  hath  yielded 


222 


CHARACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


much :  either  thy  estate  gives  privilege  of  liberty,  or 
thy  youth  ;  or  if  neither,  ‘  What  if  it  be  ill  ? — yet  it  is 
pleasant !’  Honesty  to  him  is  nice  singularity ;  re¬ 
pentance,  superstitious  melancholy ;  gravity,  dulness ; 
and  all  virtue,  an  innocent  conceit  of  the  base  minded. 
In  short,  he  is  the  moth  of  liberal  men’s  coats,  the  ear¬ 
wig  of  the  mighty,  the  bane  of  courts,  a  friend  and  a 
slave  to  the  trencher,  and  good  for  nothing  but  to  be  a 
factor  for  the  devil. 


OF  THE  SLOTHFUL. 

He  is  a  religious  man,  and  wears  the  time  in  his  clois¬ 
ter  ;  and  as  the  cloak  of  his  doing  nothing,  pleads  con¬ 
templation  ;  yet  is  he  no  whit  the  leaner  for  his  thoughts, 
no  whit  learneder.  He  takes  no  less  care  how  to  spend 
time,  than  others  how  to  gain  by  the  expense  ;  and  when 
business  importunes  him,  is  more  troubled  to  fore-think 
what  he  must  do,  than  another  to  effect  it.  Summer  is 
out  of  his  favor,  for  nothing  but  long  days  that  make  no 
haste  to  their  even.  He  loves  still  to  have  the  sun  wit¬ 
ness  of  his  rising :  and  lies  long,  more  for  lothness  to 
dress  him  than  will  to  sleep  ;  and  after  some  streaking 
and  yawning,  calls  for  dinner,  unwashed  ;  which  having 
digested  with  a  sleep  in  his  chair,  he  walks  forth  to  the 
bench  in  the  market-place,  and  looks  for  companions. 
Whomsoever  he  meets,  he  stays  with  idle  questions  and 
lingering  discourse  : — how  the  days  are  lengthened  ; 
how  kindly  the  weather  is  ;  how  false  the  clock  ;  how 
forward  the  Spring,  and  ends  ever  with,  4  What  shall 
we  do  ?’  It  pleases  him  no  less  to  hinder  others,  than 
not  to  work  himself.  When  all  the  people  are  gone 


THE  SLOTHFUL. 


223 


from  church,  he  is  left  sleeping  in  his  seat  alone.  He 
enters  bonds,  and  forfeits  them  by  forgetting  the  day ; 
and  asks  his  neighbor  when  his  own  field  was  fallowed ; 
whether  the  next  piece  of  ground  belong  not  to  himself. 
His  care  is  either  none,  or  too  late.  When  winter  is 
come,  after  some  sharp  visitations,  he  looks  on  his  pile 
of  wood,  and  asks  how  much  was  cropped  the  last  Spring. 
Necessity  drives  him  to  every  action  ;  and  what  he  can¬ 
not  avoid,  he  will  yet  defer.  Every  change  troubles  him, 
although  to  the  better ;  and  his  dullness  counterfeits 
a  kind  of  contentment.  When  he  is  warned  on  a  ju¬ 
ry,  he  had  rather  pay  the  mulct  than  appear.  All  but 
that  which  nature  will  not  permit,  he  doth  by  a  deputy, 
and  counts  it  troublesome  to  do  nothing ;  but  to  do  any¬ 
thing  yet  more.  He  is  witty  in  nothing  but  framing  ex¬ 
cuses  to  sit  still ;  which  if  the  occasion  yield  not,  he 
coineth  with  ease.  There  is  no  work  that  is  not  either 
dangerous  or  thankless,  and  whereof  he  foresees  not  the 
inconvenience  and  gainlessness  before  he  enters  ;  which 
if  it  be  verified  in  event,  his  next  idleness  hath  found  a 
reason — to  patronize  it.  He  had  rather  freeze  than  fetch 
wood,  and  chooses  rather  to  steal  than  work,  to  beg  than 
take  pains  to  steal ;  and  in  many  things,  to  want  than 
beg.  He  is  so  loth  to  leave  his  neighbor’s  fire,  that  he 
is  fain  to  walk  home  in  the  dark ;  and  if  he  be  not  look¬ 
ed  to,  wears  out  the  night  in  the  chimney-corner ;  or  if 
not  that,  lies  down  in  his  clothes  to  save  two  labors. 
He  eats  and  prays  himself  asleep,  and  dreams  of  no  oth¬ 
er  torment  but  work.  This  man  is  a  standing  pool  and 
cannot  choose  l^ut  gather  corruption.  He  is  descried 
amongst  a  thousand  neighbors,  by  a  dry  and  nasty  hand 
that  still  savors  of  the  sheet ;  a  beard  uncut,  unkembed ; 


224 


CHARACTER  I  SMS  OF  VICES. 


an  eye  and  ear  yellow  with  their  excretions ;  a  coat 
shaken  on,  ragged,  unbrushed  ;  by  linen  and  face  striv¬ 
ing  whether  shall  excel  in  uncleanness.  For  body, 
he  hath  a  swollen  leg,  a  dusky  and  swinish  eye,  a  blown 
cheek,  a  drawling  tongue,  an  heavy  foot;  and  is  no¬ 
thing  but  a  colder  earth  molded  with  standing  water. 
To  conclude,  is  a  man  in  nothing  but  in  speech  and 
shape. 


OF  THE  COVETOUS. 

He  is  a  servant  to  himself,  yea,  to  his  servant ;  and 
doth  base  homage  to  that  which  should  be  the  worst 
drudge.  A  lifeless  piece  of  earth  is  his  master,  yea,  his 
god,  which  he  shrines  in  his  coffer,  and  to  which  he  sac¬ 
rifices  his  heart.  Every  face  of  his  coin  is  a  new  image 
which  he  adores  with  the  highest  veneration  ;  yet  takes 
upon  him  to  be  protector  of  that  he  worsliipeth :  which 
he  fears  to  keep,  and  abhors  to  lose — not  daring  to  trust 
either  any  other  god  or  his  OAvn.  Like  a  true  chemist, 
he  turns  everything  into  silver  ; — both  what  he  should 
eat  and  what  he  should  wear, — and  that  he  keeps  to  look 
on,  not  to  use.  When  he  returns  from  his  field,  he  asks, 
not  without  much  rage,  what  became  of  the  loose  crust 
in  his  cupboard,  and  who  hath  rioted  among  his  leeks. 
He  never  eats  good  meal  but  on  his  neighbor’s  trencher, 
and  there  he  makes  amends  to  his  complaining  stomach 
for  his  former  and  future  fasts.  He  bids  his  neighbors 
to  dinner,  and  when  they  have  done,  sends  in  a  trencher 
for  the  shot.  Once  in  a  year  perhaps,  he  gives  himself 
leave  to  feast,  and  for  the  time  thinks  no  man  more  lav¬ 
ish  ;  wherein  he  lists  not  to  fetch  his  dishes  from  far,  nor 


% 


THE  COVETOUS. 


225 


will  be  beholden  to  the  shambles.  His  own  provision 
shall  furnish  his  board  with  an  insensible  cost :  and  when 
his  guests  are  parted,  talks  how  much  every  man  devour¬ 
ed,  and  how  many  cups  were  emptied ;  and  feeds  his 
family  with  the  moldy  remnants  a  month  after.  If  his 
servant  break  but  an  earthen  dish  for  want  of  light,  he 
abates  it  out  of  his  quarter’s  wages.  He  chips  his  bread 
and  sends  it  back  to  exchange  for  staler.  He  lets  mo¬ 
ney,  and  sells  time  for  a  price,  and  will  not  be  impor¬ 
tuned  either  to  prevent  or  defer  his  day  ;  and  in  the 
meantime  looks  for  secret  gratuities,  besides  the  main 
interest,  which  he  sells  and  returns  into  the  stock.  He 
breeds  of  money  to  the  third  generation  ;  neither  hath  it 
sooner  any  being,  than  he  sets  it  to  beget  more.  In  all 
things  he  affects  secrecy  and  propriety  :  he  grudgeth  his 
neighbor  the  water  of  his  well ;  and  next  to  stealing,  he 
hates  borrowing.  In  his  short  and  unquiet  sleeps,  he 
dreams  of  thieves,  and  runs  to  the  door,  and  names  more 
men  than  he  hath.  The  least  sheaf,  he  ever  culls  out 
for  tithe ;  and  to  rob  God,  holds  it  the  best  pastime,  the 
clearest  gain.  This  man  cries  out  above  others,  of  the 
prodigality  of  our  times,  and  tells  of  the  thrift  of  our 
forefathers  : — how  that  great  prince  thought  himself  roy¬ 
ally  attired  when  he  bestowed  thirteen  shillings  and 
four  pence  on  half  a  suit ;  how  one  wedding  gown  served 
our  grandmothers  till  they  exchanged  it  for  a  winding- 
sheet — and  praises  plainness,  not  for  less  sin  but  for  less 
cost.  For  himself,  he  is  still  known  by  his  forefathers’ 
coat,  which  he  means,  with  his  blessing,  to  bequeath  to 
the  many  descents  of  his  heirs.  He  neither  would 
be  poor,  nor  be  accounted  rich.  No  man  complains  so 
much  of  want,  to  avoid  a  subsidy ;  no  man  is  so  impor- 

15 


226 


CHARACTEEI  SMS  OF  VICES. 


tunate  in  begging,  so  cruel  in  exaction ;  and  when  he 
most  complains  of  want,  he  fears  that  which  he  complains 
to  have.  No  way  is  indirect  to  wealth,  whether  of  fraud 
or  violence.  Gain  is  his  godliness  ;  which  if  conscience 
go  about  to  prejudice,  and  grow  troublesome  by  exclaim¬ 
ing  against,  he  is  condemned  for  a  common  barrator. 
Like  another  Aliab,  he  is  sick  of  the  next  field  ;  and 
thinks  he  is  ill-seated  while  he  dwells  by  neighbors. 
Shortly,  his  neighbors  do  not  much  more  hate  him,  than 
he  himself.  He  cares  not,  for  no  great  advantage,  to 
lose  his  friend,  pine  his  body,  damn  his  soul ;  and  would 
despatch  himself  when  corn  falls,  but  that  he  is  loth  to 
cast  away  money  on  a  cord. 

OF  THE  VAINGLORIOUS. 

All  his  humor  rises  up  into  the  froth  of  ostentation ; 
which  if  it  once  settle,  falls  down  into  a  narrow  room.  If 
the  excess  be  in  the  understanding  part,  all  his  wit  is  in 
print ;  the  press  hath  left  his  head  empty — yea,  not  only 
what  he  had,  but  what  he  could  borrow  without  leave. 
If  his  glory  be  in  his  devotion,  he  gives  not  an  aims,  but 
on  record ;  and  if  he  have  once  done  well,  God  hears  of 
it  often,  for  upon  every  unkindness,  he  is  ready  to  up¬ 
braid  Him  with  merits.  Over  and  above  his  own  dis¬ 
charge,  he  hath  some  satisfactions  to  spare  for  the  com¬ 
mon  treasure.  He  can  fulfil  the  law  with  ease,  and  earn 
God  with  superfluity.  If  he  have  bestowed  but  a  little 
sum,  in  the  glazing,  paving,  parieting  of  God’s  house, 
you  shall  find  it  in  the  church  window.  Or  if  a  more 
gallant  humor  possess  him,  he  wears  all  his  land  on  his 
back ;  and  walking  high,  looks  over  his  left  shoulder  to 


THE  VAINGLORIOUS. 


227 


see  if  the  point  of  his  rapier  follow  him  with  a  grace. 
He  is  proud  of  another  man’s  horse  ;  and  well-mounted, 
thinks  every  man  wrongs  him  that  looks  not  at  him.  A 
bare  head  in  the  street,  doth  him  more  good  than  a  meal’s 
meat.  He  swears  big  at  an  ordinary,  and  talks  of  the 
court  with  a  sharp  accent ;  neither  vouchsafes  to  name 
any  not  honorable,  nor  those  without  some  term  of  fa¬ 
miliarity  ;  and  likes  well  to  see  the  hearer  look  upon  him 
amazedly,  as  if  he  said,  4  How  happy  is  this  man  that  is 
so  great  with  great  ones  !’  Under  pretence  of  seeking 
for  a  scroll  of  news,  he  draws  out  an  handful  of  letters 
endorsed  with  his  own  style,  to  the  height ;  and  half 
reading  every  title,  passes  over  the  latter  part  with  a 
murmur,  not  without  signifying  what  lord  sent  this,  what 
great  lady  the  other,  and  for  what  suits — the  last  paper, 
as  it  happens,  is  his  news  from  his  honourable  friend  in 
the  French  court.  In  the  midst  of  dinner,  his  lackey 
comes  sweating  in  with  a  sealed  note  from  his  creditor 
who  now  threatens  a  speedy  arrest,  and  whispers  the  ill 
news  in  his  master’s  ear  ;  when  he  aloud  names  a  Coun¬ 
cillor  of  State,  and  professes  to  know  the  employment. 
The  same  messenger  he  calls  with  an  imperious  nod, 
and  after  expostulation  where  he  hath  left  his  fellows,  in 
his  ear  sends  him  for  some  new  spur-leathers  or  stock¬ 
ings  by  this  time  footed  ;  and  when  he  is  gone  half  the 
room  recalls  him,  and  saith  aloud,  4  It  is  no  matter  ;  let  the 
greater  bag  alone  till  I  come and  yet  again  calling 
him  closer,  whispers  so  that  all  the  table  may  hear,  that 
4  If  his  crimson  suit  be  ready  against  the  day,  the  rest 
need  no  has  He  picks  his  teeth  when  his  stomach  is 
empty,  and  calls  for  pheasants  at  a  common  inn.  You 
shall  find  him  prizing  the  richest  jewels  and  fairest  horses 


228 


CHARACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


when  his  purse  yields  not  money  enough  for  earnest.  He 
thrusts  himself  into  the  press,  before  some  great  ladies, 
and  loves  to  be  seen  near  the  head  of  a  great  train.  His 
talk  is,  how  many  mourners  he  furnished  with  gowns  at 
his  father’s  funeral,  how  many  messes,  how  rich  his  coat 
is  and  how  ancient,  how  great  his  alliance,  what  chal¬ 
lenges  he  hath  made  and  answered,  what  exploits  he  did 
at  Cales  or  Newport ;  and  when  he  -hath  commended 
others’  buildings,  furnitures,  suits,  compares  them  with  liis 
own.  When  he  hath  undertaken  to  be  the  broker  for 
some  rich  diamond,  he  wears  it :  and  pulling  off  his  glove 
to  stroke  up  his  hair,  thinks  no  eye  should  have  any 
other  object.  Entertaining  his  friend,  he  chides  his  cook 
for  no  better  cheer ;  and  names  the  dishes  he  meant,  and 
wants.  To  conclude,  he  is  ever  on  the  stage,  and  acts 
still  a  glorious  part  abroad,  when  no  man  carries  a  baser 
heart,  no  man  is  more  sordid  and  careless  at  home.  He 
is  a  Spanish  soldier  on  an  Italian  theatre,  a  bladder  full 
of  wind,  a  skin  full  of  words,  a  fool’s  wonder,  and  a  wise 
man’s  fool. 


OF  THE  PRESUMPTUOUS. 

Presumption  is  nothing  but  hope  out  of  his  wits,  an 
high  house  upon  weak  pillars.  The  presumptuous  man 
loves  to  attempt  great  things,  only  because  they  are  hard 
and  rare.  His  actions  are  bold  and  venturous,  and  more 
full  of  hazard  than  use.  He  hoisteth  sail  in  a  tempest, 
and  saith  never  any  of  his  ancestors  were  drowned.  He 
goes  into  an  infected  house,  and  says  the  plague  dares  not 
seize  on  noble  blood.  He  runs  on  high  battlements, 
gallops  down  steep  hills,  rides  over  narrow  bridges,  walks 


THE  PRESUMPTUOUS. 


229 


on  weak  ice,  and  never  thinks,  ‘  What  if  I  fall  ?’  but, 
i  What  if  I  run  over  and  fall  not  ?’  He  is  a  confident 
alchymist,  and  braggeth  that  the  womb  of  his  furnace 
hath  conceived  a  burden  that  will  do  all  the  world  good  ; 
which  yet  he  desires  secretly  born,  for  fear  of  his  own 
bondage.  In  the  meantime  his  glass  breaks ;  yet  he 
upon  better  luting  lays  wagers  of  the  success,  and  prom- 
iseth  wedges  beforehand  to  his  friend.  He  saith,  ‘  I  will 
sin,  and  be  sorry,  and  escape.  Either  God  will  not  see,  or 
not  be  angry,  or  not  punish  it,  or  remit  the  measure.  If  I 
do  well,  He  is  just  to  reward ;  if  ill,  He  is  merciful  to 
forgive/  Thus  his  praises  wrong  God  no  less  than  his 
offence,  and  hurt  himself  no  less  than  they  wrong  God. 
Any  pattern  is  enough  to  encourage  him :  show  him  the 
way  where  any  foot  hath  trod ;  he  dare  follow,  although 
he  see  no  steps  returning.  What  if  a  thousand  have 
attempted  and  miscarried  !  If  but  one  have  prevailed, 
it  sufficeth.  He  suggests  to  himself  false  hopes  of  ‘  never 
too  late  ’ — as  if  he  could  command  either  time  or  repen¬ 
tance  :  and  dare  defer  the  expectation  of  mercy,  till  be¬ 
twixt  the  bridge  and  the  water.  Give  him  but  where  to 
set  his  foot,  and  he  will  remove  the  earth.  He  fore¬ 
knows  the  mutations  of  states,  the  events  of  war,  the 
temper  of  the  seasons  : — either  his  old  prophecy  tells  it 
him,  or  his  stars.  Yea,  he  is  no  stranger  to  the  records 
of  God’s  secret  counsel ;  but  he  turns  them  over,  and 
copies  them  out  at  pleasure.  I  know  not  whether,  in  all 
his  enterprises,  he  show  less  fear  or  wisdom.  No  man 
promises  himself  more,  no  man  more  believes  himself. 
‘  I  will  go  and  sell,  and  return  and  purchase,  and  spend 
and  leave  my  sons  such  estates  all  which  if  it  succeed, 
he  thanks  himself ;  if  not,  he  blames  not  himself.  His 


230 


CHARACTERISE!  S  OF  TICES. 


purposes  are  measured,  not  by  his  ability,  but  his  will ; 
and  his  actions,  by  his  purposes.  Lastly,  he  is  ever 
credulous  in  assent,  rash  in  undertaking,  peremptory  in 
resolving,  witless  in  proceeding,  and  in  his  ending,  mise¬ 
rable  ;  which  is  never  other  than  either  the  laughter  of 
the  wise,  or  the  pity  of  fools. 


OF  THE  DISTRUSTFUL. 

The  distrustful  man  hath  his  heart  in  his  eyes  or  in 
his  hand  :  nothing  is  sure  to  him  but  what  he  sees,  what 
he  handles.  He  is  either  very  simple  or  very  false ; 
and  therefore  believes  not  others,  because  he  knows  how 
little  himself  is  worthy  of  belief.  In  spiritual  things,  ei¬ 
ther  God  must  leave  a  pawn  with  him,  or  seek  some 
other  creditor.  All  absent  things  and  unusual,  have  no 
other  but  a  conditional  entertainment — they  are  strange, 
if  true.  If  he  see  two  neighbors  whisper  in  his  presence, 
he  bids  them  speak  out ;  and  charges  them  to  say  no 
more  than  they  can  justify.  When  he  hath  committed  a 
message  to  his  servant,  he  sends  a  second  after  him  to 
listen  how  it  is  delivered.  He  is  his  own  secretary,  and 
of  his  own  counsel,  for  what  he  hath,  for  what  he  purpos- 
eth  ;  and  when  he  tells  over  his  bags,  looks  thorough  the 
key-hole  to  see  if  he  have  any  hidden  witness,  and  asks 
aloud,  ‘  Who  is  there  ?’  when  no  man  hears  him.  He  bor¬ 
rows  money  when  he  needs  not,  for  fear  lest  others  should 
borrow  of  him.  He  is  ever  timorous  and  cowardly  ;  and 
asks  every  man’s  errand  at  the  door,  ere  he  opens.  After 
his  first  sleep,  he  starts  up  and  asks  if  the  furthest  gate  were 
barred;  and  out  of  a  fearful  sweat,  calls  up  his  servant 
and  bolts  the  door  after  him ;  and  then  studies  whether 


THE  DISTRUSTFUL. 


231 


it  were  better  to  lie  still  and  believe,  or  rise  and  see. 
Neither  is  his  heart  fuller  of  fears  than  his  head  of  strange 
projects,  and  far-fetched  constructions  : — what  means  the 
state,  think  you,  in  such  an  action,  and  whither  tends  this 
course?  Learn  of  me — if  you  know  not — the  ways  of 
deep  policies  are  secret,  and  full  of  unknown  windings : 
that  is  their  act,  this  will  be  their  issue. —  So  casting  be¬ 
yond  the  moon,  he  makes  wise  and  just  proceedings  sus¬ 
pected.  In  all  his  predictions  and  imaginations,  he  ever 
lights  upon  the  worst ; — not  what  is  most  likely  will  fall 
out,  but  what  is  most  ill.  There  is  nothing  that  he 
takes  not  with  the  left  hand :  no  text  which  his  gloss 
corrupts  not.  Words,  oaths,  parchments,  seals,  are  but 
broken  reeds ;  these  shall  never  deceive  him  ;  he  loves 
no  payments  but  real.  If  but  one  in  an  age  have  mis¬ 
carried  by  a  rare  casualty,  he  misdoubts  the  same  event. 
If  but  a  tile  fallen  from  an  high  roof  have  brained  a  pas¬ 
senger,  or  the  breaking  of  a  coach-wheel  have  endan¬ 
gered  the  burden,  he  swears  he  will  keep  home,  or  take 
him  to  his  horse.  He  dares  not  come  to  church,  for 
fear  of  the  crowd ;  nor  spare  the  Sabbath’s  labor,  for 
fear  of  the  want ;  nor  come  near  the  parliament-house, 
because  it  should  have  been  blown  up.  What  might 
have  been,  affects  him  as  much  as  what  will  be.  Argue, 
vow,  protest,  swear ;  he  hears  thee,  and  believes  him¬ 
self.  He  is  a  skeptic,  and  dare  hardly  give  credit  to  his 
senses,  which  he  hath  often  arraigned  of  false  intelligence. 
He  so  lives,  as  if  he  thought  all  the  world  were  thieves, 
and  were  not  sure  whether  himself  were  one.  He  is  un¬ 
charitable  in  his  censures,  unquiet  in  his  fears ;  bad 
enough  always,  but  in  his  own  opinion  much  worse  than 
he  is. 


232 


CHARACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


OF  THE  AMBITIOUS. 

Ambition  is  a  proud  covetousness,  a  dry  thirst  of  hon¬ 
or,  the  longing  disease  of  reason,  an  aspiring  and  gallant 
madness.  The  ambitious  climbs  up  high  and  perilous 
stairs,  and  never  cares  how  to  come  down  ;  the  desire  of 
rising  hath  swallowed  up  his  fear  of  a  fall.  Having 
once  cleaved,  like  a  bur,  to  some  great  man’s  coat,  he 
resolves  not  to  be  shaken  off  with  any  small  indignities ; 
and  finding  his  hold  thoroughly  fast,  casts  how  to  insin¬ 
uate  yet  nearer ;  and  therefore  he  is  busy  and  servile  in 
his  endeavors  to  please,  and  all  his  officious  respects  turn 
home  to  himself.  He  can  be  at  once  a  slave  to  com¬ 
mand,  an  intelligencer  to  inform,  a  parasite  to  soothe  and 
flatter,  a  champion  to  defend,  an  executioner  to  revenge 
— anything  for  an  advantage  of  favor.  He  hath  pro¬ 
jected  a  plot  to  rise,  and  woe  be  to  the  friend  that  stands 
in  his  way.  He  still  haunteth  the  court,  and  his  unqui¬ 
et  spirit  haunteth  him  ;  which  having  .fetched  him  from 
the  secure  peace  of  his  country  rest,  sets  him  new  and 
impossible  tasks;  and  after  many  disappointments,  en¬ 
courages  him  to  try  the  same  sea  in  spite  of  his  ship¬ 
wrecks,  and  promises  better  success.  A  small  hope 
gives  him  heart  against  great  difficulties,  and  draws  on 
new  expense,  new  servility  ;  persuading  him — like  fool¬ 
ish  boys — to  shoot  away  a  second  shaft,  that  he  may 
find  the  first.  He  yieldeth  ;  and  now  secure  of  the  is¬ 
sue,  applauds  himself  in  that  honor  which  he  still  affect- 
eth,  still  misseth  :  and  for  the  last  of  all  trials,  will  rath¬ 
er  bribe  for  a  troublesome  preferment,  than  return  void 
of  a  title.  But  now  when  he  finds  himself  desperately 


THE  AMBITIOUS. 


233 


crossed,  and  at  once  spoiled  both  of  advancement  and 
hope,  both  of  fruition  and  possibility,  all  his  desire  is 
turned  into  rage  ;  his  thirst  is  now  only  of  revenge  ;  his 
tongue  sounds  of  nothing  but  detraction  and  slander. 
Now  the  place  he  sought  for,  is  base  ;  his  rival,  unwor¬ 
thy;  his  adversary,  injurious;  officers,  corrupt;  court, 
infectious  ;  and  how  well  is  he  that  may  be  his  own  man, 
his  own  master  ;  that  may  live  safely  in  a  mean  distance, 
at  pleasure,  free  from  starving,  free  from  burning.  But 
if  his  designs  speed  well,  ere  he  be  warm  in  that  seat,  his 
mind  is  possessed  of  an  higher.  What  he  hath,  is  but  a 
degree  to  what  he  would  have.  Now  he  scornethwhat 
he  formerly  aspired  to  :  his  success  doth  not  give  him  so 
much  contentment  as  provocation  ;  neither  can  he  be  at 
rest  so  long  as  he  hath  one,  either  to  overlook,  or  to  match, 
or  to  emulate  him.  When  his  country  friend  comes  to 
visit  him,  he  carries  him  up  to  the  awful  presence,  and  now 
in  his  sight  crowding  nearer  to  the  chair  of  state,  desires  to 
be  looked  on,  desires  to  be  spoken  to,  by  the  greatest;  and 
studies  how  to  offer  an  occasion,  lest  he  should  seem  un¬ 
known,  unregarded  :  and  if  any  gesture  of  the  least  grace 
fall  haply  upon  him,  he  looks  back  upon  his  friend,  lest 
he  should  carelessly  let  it  pass  without  a  note  :  and  what 
he  wanteth  in  sense,  he  supplies  in  history.  His  dispo¬ 
sition  is  never  but  shamefully  unthankful ;  for  unless  he 
have  all,  he  hath  nothing.  It  must  be  a  large  draught, 
whereof  he  will  not  say  that  those  few  drops  do  not  slake 
but  inflame  him — so  still  he  thinks  himself  the  worse 
for  small  favors.  His  wit  so  contrives  the  likely  plots 
of  his  promotion,  as  if  he  would  steal  it  away  without 
God’s  knowledge,  besides  his  will ;  neither  doth  he  ever 
look  up  and  consult  in  his  forecasts  with  the  supreme 


234 


CH ARACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


Moderator  of  all  things  ; — as  one  that  thinks  honor  is 

0  I  '  M  \ 

ruled  by  fortune,  and  that  heaven  meddleth  not  with  the 
disposing  of  these  earthly  lots, — and  therefore  it  is  just 
with  that  wise  God  to  defeat  his  fairest  hopes,  and  to 
bring  him  to  a  loss  in  the  hottest  of  his  chase  ;  and  to 
cause  honor  to  fly  away  so  much  the  faster,  by  how 
much  it  is  more  eagerly  pursued.  Finally,  he  is  an  im¬ 
portunate  suitor,  a  corrupt  client,  a  violent  undertaker, 
a  smooth  factor — but  untrusty,  a  restless  master  of  his 
own,  a  bladder  puffed  up  with  the  wind  of  hope  and  self- 
love.  He  is  in  the  common  body  as  a  mole  in  the  earth, 
ever  unquietly  casting;  and,  in  one  word,  is  nothing  but 
a  confused  heap  of  envy,  pride,  covetousness. 


OF  THE  UNTHRIFT. 

He  ranges  beyond  his  pale,  and  lives  without  compass. 
His  expense  is  measured,  not  by  ability,  but  will.  His 
pleasures  are  immoderate,  and  not  honest.  A  wanton 
eye,  a  lickerish  tongue,  a  gamesome  hand,  have  im¬ 
poverished  him.  The  vulgar  sort  call  him  bountiful, 
and  applaud  him  while  he  spends,  and  recompense  him 
with  wishes  when  he  gives,  with  pity  when  he  wants. 
Neither  can  it  be  denied  that  he  raught  true  liberality, 
but  over-went  it.  No  man  could  have  lived  more  lau¬ 
dably,  if  when  he  was  at  the  best,  he  had  staid  there.  ' 
While  he  is  present,  none  of  the  wealthier  guests  may 
pay  aught  to  the  shot,  without  much  vehemency,  with¬ 
out  danger  of  unkindness.  Use  hath  made  it  unpleas¬ 
ant  to  him  not  to  spend.  He  is  in  all  things  more  am¬ 
bitious  of  the  title  of  good-fellowship  than  of  wisdom. 
When  he  looks  into  the  wealthy  chest  of  his  father,  his 


THE  UNTHRIFT. 


235 


% 


conceit  suggests  that  it  cannot  be  emptied  ;  and  while  he 
takes  out  some  deal  every  day,  he  perceives  not  any 
diminution  ;  and  when  the  heap  is  sensibly  abated,  yet 
still  flatters  himself  with  enough.  One  hand  cozens  the 
other,  and  the  belly  deceives  both.  He  doth  not  so 
much  bestow  benefits,  as  scatter  them.  True  merit  doth 
not  carry  them,  but  smoothness  of  adulation.  His  senses 
are  too  much  his  guides  and  his  purveyors,  and  appe¬ 
tite  is  his  steward.  He  is  an  impotent  servant  to  his  lusts, 
and  knows  not  to  govern  either  his  mind  or  his  purse. 
Improvidence  is  ever  the  companion  of  unthriftiness. 
This  man  cannot  look  beyond  the  present,  and  neither 
thinks  nor  cares  what  shall  be ;  much  less  suspects  what 
may  be  ;  and  while  he  lavishes  out  his  substance  in  su¬ 
perfluities,  thinks  he  only  knows  what  the  world  is  worth, 
and  that  others  over-prize  it.  He  feels  poverty  before 
he  sees  it,  never  complains  till  he  be  pinched  with  wants, 
never  spares  till  the  bottom — when  it  is  too  late  either 
to  spend  or  recover.  He  is  every  man’s  friend,  save 
his  own  ;  and  then  wrongs  himself  most,  when  he  court- 
eth  himself  with  most  kindness.  He  vies  time  with  the 
slothful,  and  it  is  an  hard  match  whether  chases  away 
good  hours  to  worse  purpose — the  one  by  doing  nothing, 
or  the  other  by  idle  pastime.  He  hath  so  dilated  himself 
with  the  beams  of  prosperity,  that  he  lies  open  to  all 
dangers,  and  cannot  gather  up  himself  on  just  warning, 
to  avoid  a  mischief.  He  were  good  for  an  almoner,  ill 
for  a  steward.  Finally,  he  is  the  living  tomb  of  his 
forefathers,  of  his  posterity  :  and  when  he  hath  swallow¬ 
ed  both,  is  more  empty  than  before  he  devoured  them. 


236 


CHAKACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 


OF  THE  ENVIOUS. 

He  feeds  on  others’  evils,  and  hath  no  disease  but  his 
neighbor’s  welfare.  Whatsoever  God  do  for  him,  he 
cannot  be  happy  with  company ;  and  if  he  were  put  to 
choose  whether  he  would  rather  have  equals  in  a  com¬ 
mon  felicity  or  superiors  in  misery,  he  would  demur 
upon  the  election.  His  eye  casts  out  too  much,  and 
never  returns  home,  but  to  make  comparisons  with 
another’s  good.  He  is  an  ill  prizer  of  foreign  commodi¬ 
ty,  worse  of  his  own — for  that  he  rates  too  high  ;  this 
under  value.  You  shall  have  him  ever  inquiring  into 
the  estates  of  his  equals  and  betters  ;  wherein  he  is  not 
more  desirous  to  hear  all,  than  loth  to  hear  anything 
over-good  :  and  if  just  report  relate  aught  better  than  he 
would,  he  redoubles  the  question,  as  being  hard  to  be¬ 
lieve  what  he  likes  not ;  and  hopes  yet,  if  that  be  aver¬ 
red  again  to  his  grief,  that  there  is  somewhat  concealed 
in  the  relation,  which  if  it  were  known,  would  argue  the 
commended  party  miserable,  and  blemish  him  with  se¬ 
cret  shame.  He  is  ready  to  quarrel  with  God  because 
the  next  field  is  fairer  grown,  and  angerly  calculates  his 
cost,  and  time,  and  tillage.  Whom  he  dares  not  openly 
backbite  nor  wound  with  a  direct  censure,  he  strikes 
smoothly  with  an  over-cold  praise  ;  and  when  he  sees 
that  he  must  either  maliciously  oppugn  the  just  praise 
of  another — which  were  unsafe — or  approve  it  by  assent, 
he  yieldeth  ;  but  shows  withal  that  his  means  were  such, 
both  by  nature  and  education,  that  he  could  not  without 
much  neglect  be  less  commendable  :  so  his  happiness 
shall  be  made  the  color  of  detraction.  When  an 


THE  ENVIOUS. 


237 


wholesome  law  is  propounded,  lie  crossetli  it,  either  by 
open  or  close  opposition ;  not  for  any  incommodity  or 
inexpedience,  but  because  it  proceeded  from  any  mouth 
besides  his  own  : — and  it  must  be  a  cause  rarely  plausi¬ 
ble,  that  will  not  admit  some  probable  contradiction. 
When  his  equal  should  rise  to  honor,  he  strives  against 
it  unseen,  and  rather  with  much  cost  suborneth  great  ad¬ 
versaries  ;  and  when  he  sees  his  resistance  vain,  he  can 
give  an  hollow  gratulation  in  presence,  but  in  secret  dis¬ 
parages  that  advancement ; — either  the  man  is  unfit  for 
the  place  or  the  place  for  the  man ;  or  if  fit,  yet  less 
gainful  or  more  common  than  opinion  :  whereto  he  adds 
that  himself  might  have  had  the  same  dignity  upon  bet¬ 
ter  terms,  and  refused  it.  He  is  witty  in  devising  sug¬ 
gestions  to  bring  his  rival  out  of  love,  into  suspicion  : — 
if  he  be  courteous,  he  is  sedulously  popular;  if  bountiful, 
he  binds  over  his  clients  to  a  faction  ;  if  successful  in 
war,  he  is  dangerous  in  peace ;  if  wealthy,  he  lays  up 
for  a  day  ;  if  powerful,  nothing  wants  but  opportunity, 
of  rebellion.  His  submission  is  ambitious  hypocrisy; 
his  religion,  politic  insinuation — no  action  is  safe  from  a 
jealous  construction.  When  he  receives  a  good  report 
of  him  whom  he  emulates,  he  saith,  ‘  Fame  is  partial, 
and  is  wont  to  blanch  mischiefs,’  and  pleaseth  himself  with 
hope  to  find  it  worse  ;  and  if  ill-will  have  dispersed  any 
more  spiteful  narration,  he  lays  hold  on  that,  against  all 
witnesses,  and  broacheth  that  rumor  for  truest,  because 
worst:  and  when  he  sees  him  perfectly  miserable,  he 
can  at  once  pity  him  and  rejoice.  What  himself  can¬ 
not  do,  others  shall  not :  he  hath  gained  well,  if  he  have 
hindered  the  success  of  what  he  would  have  done  and 
could  not.  He  conceals  his  best  skill,  not  so  as  it  may 


238  CHAEACTERISMS  OF  VICES. 

not  be  known  that  he  knows  it,  but  so  as  it  may  not  be 
learned ;  because  he  would  have  the  world  miss  him. 
He  attained  to  a  sovereign  medicine,  by  the  secret 
legacy  of  a  dying  empiric ;  whereof  he  will  leave  no 
heir,  lest  the  praise  should  be  divided.  Finally,  he  is 
an  enemy  to  God’s  favors  if  they  fall  beside  himself,  the 
best  nurse  of  ill-fame,  a  man  of  the  worst  diet — for  he 
consumes  himself,  and  delights  in  pining — a  thorn-hedge 
covered  with  nettles,  a  peevish  interpreter  of  good  things, 
and  no  other  than  a  lean  and  pale  carcass  quickened 
with  a  fiend. 


/ 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH: 


OR 


OF  TRUE  PEACE  AND  TRANQUILITY  OF  MIND. 


*  * 

* 


. 


s 


w  * 


THE  ANALYSIS 


OR  RESOLUTION  OF  THIS  TREATISE  CONCERNING-  TRAN¬ 
QUILLITY. 


Our  treatise  concerning  Tranquillity  is  partly 

I.  Refutatory  :  where  the  precepts  of  the  heathen  are,  Recited — 

Rejected  : — for  enumeration  insufficient — quality  of  remedies 

too  weak. 

II.  Positive  :  Which  teacheth,  What  it  is,  and  wherein  it  consists 

— How  to  be  attained :  viz. 

Enemies  of  Peace  subdued ;  whether  those 
On  the  Left  Hand  : 

Of  Sins  done — Whose  trouble  is,  1.  In  their  Guiltiness.  Con¬ 
sidered,  How  turbulent  they  arc  till  they  be  pacified.  How 
remedied  : — Peace  is  through  Reconciliation — Reconcilia¬ 
tion  through  Remission — Remission  by  Satisfaction — Sat¬ 
isfaction  not  by  us — By  infinite  merits  of  Christ.  Where 
are  considered,  The  person  and  merits  of  Christ  by  whom 
Peace  is  offered — the  receiving  of  our  offered  Peace  by 
faith.  2.  In  their  Solicitation.  Remedied  by  resolute  re¬ 
sistance  ;  where  is  the  subduing  and  moderation  of  our  af¬ 
fections. 

Of  Pain  Suffered — 1.  Crosses.  Imaginary: — How  redressed. 
True  : — How  prevented  and  prepared  against — By  expec¬ 
tation — Exercise.  How  to  be  borne.  Contentedly,  in  re¬ 
spect  of  their  cause — Thankfully,  in  respect  of  their  good 
effect — Joyfully,  in  respect  of  their  issue.  2.  Death.  Con¬ 
sidered,  How  fearful — Which  way  sweetened. 

16 


t 


242  ANALYSIS. 

On  the  Right  Hand  : 

Over-joying ;  Over-desiring — of  Riches — Honor — Pleasure. 
These  how  to  be  esteemed — -As  not  good  in  themselves — 
As  exposing  us  to  evil. 

Rules  and  Grounds  of  Peace  set  down. 

1.  Main  or  Principal :  A  continual  fruition  of  the  presence  of 

God — To  be  renewed  to  us  by  all  holy  exercises. 

2.  Subordinate  :  In  respect  of  our  Actions  ; — A  resolution  to  re¬ 

frain  from  all  occasions  of  the  displeasure  of  God — To 
perform  all  required  duties — To  do  nothing  doubtingly. 
In  respect  of  our  Estates  : — To  depend  wholly  on  the  pro¬ 
vidence  of  God — To  account  our  own  estate  best. 


# 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


SECTION  I. 

Censure  of  philosophers. 

When  I  had  studiously  read  over  the  moral  writings 
of  some  wise  heathen,  especially  those  of  the  Stoical  pro¬ 
fession,  I  must  confess  I  found  a  little  envy  and  pity 
striving  together  within  me.  I  envied  nature  in  them, 
to  see  her  so  witty  in  devising  such  plausible  refuges  for 
doubting  and  troubled  minds  :  I  pitied  them,  to  see  that 
their  careful  disquisition  of  true  rest  led  them  in  the  end 
but  to  mere  unquietness.  Wherein,  methought,  they 
were  as  hounds  swift  of  foot  but  not  exquisite  in  scent, 
which  in  an  hasty  pursuit,  take  a  wrong  way — spending 
their  mouths  and  courses  in  vain.  Their  praise  of  guess¬ 
ing  wittily  they  shall  not  leese ;  their  hopes,  both  they 
lost  and  whosoever  follows  them.  If  Seneca  could  have 
had  grace  to  his  wit,  what  wonders  would  he  have  done 
in  this  kind !  What  divine  might  not  have  yielded  him 
the  chair,  for  precepts  of  tranquillity,  without  any  dis¬ 
paragement  !  As  he  was,  this  he  hath  gained  : — never 
any  heathen  wrote  more  divinely,  never  any  philoso¬ 
pher,  more  probably.  Neither  would  I  ever  desire  bet¬ 
ter  master,  if  to  this  purpose  I  needed  no  other  mistress 
than  nature.  But  this,  in  truth,  is  a  task  which  nature 


244 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


hath  never  without  presumption  undertaken,  and  never 
performed  without  much  imperfection — like  to  those  vain 
and  wandering  empirics  which  in  tables  and  pictures 
make  great  ostentation  of  cures,  never  approving  their 
skill  to  their  credulous  patients.  And  if  she  could  have 
truly  effected  it  alone,  I  know  not  what  employment  in 
this  life  she  should  have  left  for  grace  to  busy  herself 
about,  nor  what  privilege  it  should  have  been  here  be¬ 
low  to  be  a  Christian,  since  this  that  we  seek  is  the  no¬ 
blest  work  of  the  soul,  and  in  which  alone  consists  the 
only  heaven  of  this  world.  This  is  the  sum  of  all  hu¬ 
man  desires ;  which  when  we  have  attained,  then  only 
we  begin  to  live,  and  are  sure  we  cannot  thenceforth 
live  miserably.  No  marvel  then  if  all  the  heathen  have 
diligently  sought  after  it,  many  wrote  of  it,  none  attain¬ 
ed  it.  Not  Athens  must  teach  this  lesson,  but  Jeru¬ 
salem. 


SECTION  II. 

What  tranquillity  is,  and  wherein  it  consists. 

Yet  something  grace  scorneth  not  to  learn  of  nature — 
as  Moses  may  take  good  counsel  of  a  Midianite.  Nature 
hath  ever  had  more  skill  in  the  end  than  in  the  way  to 
it ;  and  whether  she  have  discoursed  of  the  good  estate 
of  the  mind — which  we  call  tranquillity — or  the  best, 
which  is  happiness,  hath  more  happily  guessed  at  the 
general  definition  of  them,  than  of  the  means  to  compass 
them.  She  teacheth  us  therefore  without  controlment 
that  the  tranquillity  of  the  mind  is  as  of  the  sea  and  wea¬ 
ther  when  no  wind  stirreth,  when  the  waves  do  not  tu- 


SECTION  II. 


245 


multuously  rise  and  fall  upon  each  other,  hut  when  the 
face  both  of  the  heaven  and  waters  is  still,  fair,  and 
equable :  that  it  is  such  an  even  disposition  of  the  heart 
wherein  the  scales  of  the  mind  neither  rise  up  towards 
the  beam,  through  their  own  lightness  or  the  overween¬ 
ing  opinion  of  prosperity,  nor  are  too  much  depressed 
with  any  load  of  sorrow  ;  but  hanging  equal  and  unmo¬ 
ved  betwixt  both,  give  a  man  liberty  in  all  occurrences 
to  enjoy  himself.  Not  that  the  most  temperate  mind 
can  be  so  the  master  of  his  passions,  as  not  sometimes  to 
over-joy  his  grief  or  over-grieve  his  joy,  according  to  the 
contrary  occasions  of  both  :  for  not  the  evenest  weights, 
but  at  their  first  putting  into  the  balance  somewhat  sway 
both  parts  thereof — not  without  some  show  of  inequali¬ 
ty — which  yet,  after  some  little  motion,  settle  themselves 
in  a  meet  poise.  It  is  enough,  that  after  some  sudden  ag¬ 
itation  it  can  return  to  itself  and  rest  itself  at  last  in  a  re¬ 
solved  peace.  And  this  due  composedness  of  mind  we  re¬ 
quire  unto  our  tranquillity, — not  for  some  short  fits  of  good 
mood  which  soon  after  end  in  discontentment, — but  with 
the  condition  of  perpetuity.  For  there  is  no  heart 
makes  so  rough  weather  as  not  sometimes  to  admit  of  a 
calm  :  and — whether  for  that  he  knoweth  no  present 
cause  of  his  trouble,  or  for  that  he  knoweth  that  cause 
of  trouble  is  countervailed  with  as  great  an  occasion  of 
private  joy,  or  for  that  the  multitude  of  evils  hath  bred 
carelessness — the  man  that  is  most  disordered,  finds 
some  respites  of  quietness.  The  balances  that  are  most 
ill-matched,  in  their  unsteady  motions  come  to  an  equali¬ 
ty,  but  stay  not  at  it.  The  frantic  man  cannot  avoid 
the  imputation  of  madness,  though  he  be  sober  for  many 
moons,  if  he  rage  in  one.  So  then  the  calm  mind  must 


246 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


be  settled  in  an  habitual  rest ;  not  then  firm  when  there 
is  nothing  to  shake  it,  but  then  least  shaken  when  it  is 
most  assailed. 


SECTION  HI. 

Insufficiency  of  human  precepts.  Seneca’s  rules. — 

Rejected,  as  insufficient.  Disposition  of  the  work. 

Whence  easily  appears  how  vainly  it  hath  been  sought, 
either  in  such  a  constant  estate  of  outward  things  as 
should  give  no  distaste  to  the  mind — whiles  all  earthly 
things  vary  with  the  weather,  and  have  no  stay  but  in 
uncertainty — or  in  the  natural  temper  of  the  soul,  so  or¬ 
dered  by  human  wisdom  as  that  it  should  not  be  affected 
with  any  casual  events  to  either  part ;  since  that  cannot 
ever  by  natural  power  be  held  like  to  itself,  but  one  while 
is  cheerful,  stirring,  and  ready  to  undertake,  another  while 
drowsy,  dull,  comfortless,  prone  to  rest,  weary  of  itself, 
lothing  his  own  purposes,  his  own  resolutions.  In 
both  which  since  the  wisest  philosophers  have  grounded 
all  the  rules  of  their  tranquillity,  it  is  plain  that  they  saw 
it  afar  off — as  they  did  heaven  itself,  with  a  desire  and  ad¬ 
miration — but  knew  not  the  way  to  it :  whereupon,  alas, 
how  slight  and  impotent  are  the  remedies  they  prescribe 
for  unquietness  !  For  what  is  it  that  for  the  inconstancy 
and  laziness  of  the  mind  still  displeasing  itself  in  what 
it  doth,  and  for  that  distemper  thereof  which  ariseth  from 
the  fearful,  unthriving,  and  restless  desires  of  it,  we 
should  ever  be  employing  ourselves  in  some  public  af¬ 
fairs,  choosing  our  business  according  to  our  inclination, 
and  prosecuting  what  we  have  chosen  ? — wherewith  being 


SECTION  III. 


247 


at  last  cloyed,  we  should  retire  ourselves  and  wear  the 
rest  of  our  time  in  private  studies  ;  that  we  should  make 
due  comparative  trials  of  our  own  ability ;  nature  of  our 
businesses  ;  disposition  of  our  chosen  friends  ? — that  in 
respect  of  patrimony,  we  should  be  but  carelessly  affect¬ 
ed,  so  drawing  it  in  as  it  may  be  least  for  show,  most  for 
use ;  removing  all  pomp  ;  bridling  our  hopes ;  cutting 
off  superfluities  :  for  crosses,  to  consider  that  custom  will 
abate  and  mitigate  them ;  that  the  best  things  are  but 
chains  and  burdens  to  those  that  have  them,  to  those 
that  use  them  ;  that  the  worst  things  have  some  mixture 
of  comfort  to  those  that  groan  under  them  ?  Or,  leav¬ 
ing  these  lower  rudiments  that  are  given  to  weak  and 
simple  novices,  to  examine  those  golden  rules  of  morali¬ 
ty  which  are  commended  to  the  most  wise  and  able  prac¬ 
titioners, — what  is  it  to  account  himself  as  a  tenant  at 
will  ? — to  fore-imagine  the  worst  in  all  casual  matters  ? 
to  avoid  all  idle  and  impertinent  businesses,  all  pragmat¬ 
ical  meddling  with  affairs  of  state  ? — not  to  fix  ourselves 
upon  any  one  estate  as  to  be  impatient  of  a  change  ? — to 
call  back  the  mind  from  outward  things,  and  draw  it 
home  into  itself  ? — to  laugh  at  and  esteem  lightly  of  oth¬ 
ers’  misdemeanors  ? — not  to  depend  on  others’  opinions, 
but  to  stand  on  our  own  bottoms  ? — to  carry  ourselves  in 
an  honest  and  simple  truth,  free  from  a  curious  hypocri¬ 
sy,  and  affectation  of  seeming  other  than  we  are,  and  yet 
as  free  from  a  base  kind  of  carelessness  ? — to  intermed¬ 
dle  retiredness  with  society,  so  as  one  may  give  sweet¬ 
ness  to  the  other,  and  both  to  us  ? — so  slackening  the 
mind  that  we  may  not  loosen  it,  and  so  bending  as  we  may 
not  break  it  ? — to  make  most  of  ourselves,  cheering  up 
our  spirits  with  variety  of  recreations,  with  satiety  of 


248 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


meals,  and  all  other  bodily  indulgence? — saving  that 
drunkenness,  methinks,  can  neither  beseem  a  wise  phi¬ 
losopher  to  prescribe,  nor  a  virtuous  man  to  practice. 
All  these  in  their  kinds  please  well,  profit  much,  and  are 
as  sovereign  for  both  these  as  they  are  unable  to  effect 
that  for  which  they  are  propounded.  [Allowed  by  Sen¬ 
eca,  in  his  last  chapter  4  Of  Tranquillity.’]  Nature  teach- 
eth  thee  all  these  should  be  done  ;  she  cannot  teach  thee 
to  do  them — and  yet,  do  all  these  and  no  more,  let  me 
never  have  rest  if  thou  have  it!  For  neither  are  here 
the  greatest  enemies  of  our  peace  so  much  as  descried 
afar  off* ;  nor  those  that  are  noted,  are  hereby  so  prevent¬ 
ed  that  upon  most  diligent  practice  we  can  promise  our¬ 
selves  any  security  :  wherewith  who  so  instructed  dare 
confidently  give  challenge  to  all  sinister  events,  is  like  to 
some  skilful  fencer  who  stands  upon  his  usual  wards  and 
plays  well;  but  if  there  come  a  strange  fetch  of  an  un¬ 
wonted  blow,  is  put  besides  the  rules  of  his  art  and  with 
much  shame  overtaken.  And  for  those  that  are  known, 
believe  me,  the  mind  of  man  is  too  weak  to  bear  out  it¬ 
self  hereby  against  all  onsets.  There  are  light  crosses 
that  will  take  an  easy  repulse  ;  others  yet  stronger  that 
shake  the  house-side,  but  break  not  in  upon  us  ;  others 
vehement,  which  by  force  make  way  to  the  heart,  where 
they  find  none  breaking  open  the  door  of  the  soul  that 
denies  entrance  ;  others  violent,  that  lift  the  mind  off*  the 
hinges,  or  rend  the  bars  of  it  in  pieces ;  others  furious, 
that  tear  up  the  very  foundations  from  the  bottom,  leav¬ 
ing  no  monument  behind  them  but  ruin.  The  wisest 
and  most  resolute  moralist  that  ever  was,  looked  pale 
when  he  should  taste  of  his  hemlock  ;  and  by  his  timo¬ 
rousness  made  sport  to  those  that  envied  his  speculations. 


SECTION  I  Y. 


249 


The  best  ©f  the  heathen  emperors,1  that  was  honored 
with  the  title  of  piety,  justly  magnified  that  courage  of 
Christians  which  made  them  insult  over  their  tormen¬ 
tors,  and  by  their  fearlessness  of  earthquakes  and  deaths 
argued  the  truth  of  their  religion.  It  must  be,  it  can  be, 
none  but  a  divine  power  that  can  uphold  the  mind 
against  the  rage  of  main  afflictions ;  and  yet  the  greatest 
crosses  are  not. the  greatest  enemies  to  inward  peace. 

Let  us,  therefore,  look  up  above  ourselves,  and  from 
the  rules  of  an  higher  art,  supply  the  defects  of  natural 
wisdom  ;  giving  such  infallible  directions  for  tranquillity, 
that  whosoever  shall  follow  cannot  but  live  sweetly  and 
with  continual  delight — applauding  himself  at  home, 
when  all  the  world  besides  him  shall  be  miserable.  To 
which  purpose  it  shall  be  requisite,  first,  to  remove  all 
causes  of  unquietness ;  and  then,  to  set  down  the  grounds 
of  our  happy  rest. 


SECTION  IV. 

Enemies  of  inward  peace  divided  into  their  ranks. 
— The  torment  of  an  evil  conscience. — The  joy  and 

PEACE  OF  THE  GUILTY,  BUT  DISSEMBLED. 

I  find  on  the  hand,  two  universal  enemies  of  tranquil¬ 
lity  — conscience  of  evil  done,  sense  or  fear  of  evil  suf¬ 
fered.  The  former,  in  one  word,  we  call  sins ;  the  lat¬ 
ter,  crosses.  The  first  of  these  must  be  quite  taken 
away,  the  second  duly  tempered,  ere  the  heart  can  be  at 


1  Antoninus  Pius. — An  Epistle  to  the  Asians,  concerning  the 
persecuted  Christians. 


250 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


rest.  For,  first,  how  can  that  man  be  at  peace,  that  is 
at  variance  with  God  and  himself  ?  How  should  peace 
be  God’s  gift,  if  it  could  be  without  him,  if  it  could  be 
against  him?  It  is  the  profession  of  sin,  although  fair- 
spoken  at  the  first  closing,  to  be  a  perpetual  make-bate 
betwixt  God  and  man,  betwixt  a  man  and  himself.  And 
this  enmity,  though  it  do  not  continually  show  itself, — 
as  the  mortalest  enemies  are  not  always  in  pitched  fields, 
one  against  the  other — for  that  the  conscience  is  not  ever 
clamorous,  but  some  while  is  silent,  other-whiles  with  still 
murmurings  bewrays  his  mislikes,  yet  doth  evermore 
work  secret  unquietness  to  the  heart.  The  guilty  man 
may  have  a  seeming  truce  ;  a  true  peace  he  cannot  have. 
Look  upon  the  face  of  the  guilty  heart,  and  thou  shalt 
see  it  pale  and  ghastly ;  the  smiles  and  laughters  faint 
and  heartless ;  the  speeches  doubtful,  and  full  of  abrupt 
stops  and  unseasonable  turnings  ;  the  purposes  and  mo¬ 
tions  unsteady,  and  savoring  of  much  distraction,  argu¬ 
ing  plainly  that  sin  is  not  so  smooth  at  her  first  motions, 
as  turbulent  afterwards.  Hence  are  those  vain  weary- 
ings  of  places  and  companies  together  with  ourselves, 
that  the  galled  soul  doth,  after  the  wont  of  sick  patients, 
seek  refreshing  in  variety ;  and  after  many  tossed  and 
turned  sides,  complains  of  remediless  and  unabated  tor¬ 
ment.  Nero,  after  so  much  innocent  blood,  may  change 
his  bed-chamber,  but  his  fiends  ever  attend  him,  ever  are 
within  him,  and  are  as  parts  of  himself.  Alas,  what 
avails  it  to  seek  outward  reliefs,  when  thou  hast  thine 
executioner  within  thee  ?  If  thou  couldst  shift  from 
thyself,  thou  mightst  have  some  hope  of  ease  ;  now  thou 
shalt  never  want  furies,  so  long  as  thou  hast  thyself 
Yea,  what  if  thou  wouldst  run  from  thyself?  Thy  soul 


SECTION  IV. 


251 


may  fly  from  thy  body ;  thy  conscience  will  not  fly  from 
thy  soul,  nor  thy  sin  from  thy  conscience.  Some  men, 
indeed,  in  the  bitterness  of  these  pangs  of  sin — like  unto 
those  fondly-impatient  fishes  that  leap  out  of  the  pan  in¬ 
to  the  flame — have  leaped  out  of  this  private  hell  that  is 
in  themselves,  into  the  common  pit ;  choosing  to  adven¬ 
ture  upon  the  future  pains  that  they  have  feared,  rather 
than  to  endure  the  present  horrors  they  have  felt :  where¬ 
in,  what  have  they  gained,  but  to  that  hell  which  was 
within  them,  a  second  hell  without  ?  The  conscience 
leaves  not  where  the  fiends  begin,  but  both  join  together 
in  torture.  But  there  are  some  firm  and  obdurate  fore¬ 
heads,  whose  resolution  can  laugh  their  sins  out  of  coun¬ 
tenance.  There  are  so  large  and  able  gorges,  as  that 
they  can  swallow  and  digest  bloody  murders  without 
complaint ;  who,  with  the  same  hands  which  they  have, 
since  their  last  meal,  imbrued  in  blood,  can  freely  carve 
to  themselves  large  morsels  at  the  next  sitting.  Be- 
lievest  thou  that  such  a  man’s  heart  laughs  with  his  face  ? 
Will  not  he  dare  to  be  an  hypocrite,  .that  durst  be  a  vil¬ 
lain  ?  These  glow-worms,  when  a  night  of  sorrow  com¬ 
passes  them,  make  a  lightsome  and  fiery  show  of  joy ; 
when  if  thou  press  them,  thou  findest  nothing  but  a  cold 
and  crude  moisture.  Knowest  thou  not  that  there  are 
those  which  count  it  no  shame  to  sin,  yet  countit  a  shame 
to  be  checked  with  remorse — especially  so  as  others’ 
eyes  may  descry  ? — to  whom  repentance  seems  base¬ 
mindedness,  unworthy  of  him  that  professes  wisdom  and 
valor.  Such  a  man  can  grieve  when  none  sees  it,  but 
himself  can  laugh  when  others  see  it,  hipaself  feels  not. 
Assure  thyself  that  man’s  heart  bleedeth,  when  his  face 
counterfeits  a  smile.  He  wears  out  many  waking  hours, 


252 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


when  thou  thinkest  he  resteth :  yea,  as  his  thoughts  afford 
him  not  sleep,  so  his  very  sleep  affords  him  not  rest ;  but 
while  his  senses  are  tied  up,  his  sin  is  loose,  representing 
itself  to  him  in  the  ugliest  shape,  and  frighting  him  with 
horrible  and  hellish  dreams.  And  if  perhaps  custom 
hath  bred  a  carelessness  in  him, — as  we  see  that  usual 
whipping  makes  the  child  not  care  for  the  rod — yet  an 
unwonted  extremity  of  the  blow  shall  fetch  blood  of  the 
soul,  and  make  the  back  that  is  most  hardened,  sensible 
of  smart ;  and  the  further  the  blow  is  fetched  through 
intermission  of  remorse,  the  harder  it  must  needs  alight. 
Therefore  I  may  confidently  tell  the  careless  sinner,  as 
that  bold  tragedian  said  to  his  great  Pompey,  The  time 
shall  come  wherein  thou  shalt  fetch  deep  sighs,  and 
therefore  shalt  sorrow  desperately,  because  thou  sorrow- 
edst  not  sooner.  The  fire  of  the  conscience  may  lie  for 
a  time  smothered  with  a  pile  of  green  wood,  that  it  can¬ 
not  be  discerned,  whose  moisture  when  once  it  hath  mas¬ 
tered,  it  sends  up  so  much  greater  flame,  by  how  much 
it  had  greater  resistance.  Hope  not  then  to  stop  the 
mouth  of  thy  conscience  from  exclaiming,  whiles  thy  sin 
continues.  That  endeavor  is  both  vain  and  hurtful : — 
so  I  have  seen  them  that  have  stopped  the  nostril  for 
bleeding,  in  hope  to  stay  the  issue  ;  when  the  blood,  hin¬ 
dered  in  his  former  course,  hath  broken  out  of  the  mouth 
or  found  way  down  into  the  stomach.  The  conscience 
is  not  pacificable  while  sin  is  within  to  vex  it,  no  more 
than  angry  swelling  can  cease  throbbing  and  aching 
whiles  the  thorn  or  the  corrupted  matter  lies  rotting  un¬ 
derneath.  Time,  that  remedies  all  other  evils  of  the 
mind,  increaseth  this,  which,  like  to  bodily  diseases, 


SECTION  V. 


253 


proves  worse  with  continuance,  and  grows  upon  us  with 
our  age. 


SECTION  V. 

The  remedy  of  an  unquiet  conscience. 

There  can  be,  therefore,  no  peace  without  reconcilia¬ 
tion.  Thou  canst  not  be  friends  with  thyself  till  with 
God  :  for  thy  conscience — which  is  thy  best  friend  while 
thou  sinnest  not — like  an  honest  servant,  takes  his  Mas¬ 
ter’s  part  against  thee  when  thou  hast  sinned,  and  will 
not  look  straight  upon  thee  till  thou  upon  God ;  not 
daring  to  be  so  kind  to  thee  as  to  be  unfaithful  to  his 
Maker.  There  can  be  no  reconciliation  without  remis¬ 
sion.  God  can  neither  forget  the  injury  of  sin,  nor  dis¬ 
semble  hatred.  It  is  for  men,  and  those  of  hollow  hearts, 
to  make  pretences  contrary  to  their  affections.  Sooth- 
ings,  and  smiles,  and  embracements,  where  we  mean  not 
love,  are  from  weakness ; — either  for  that  we  fear  our 
insufficiency  of  present  revenge,  or  hope  for  a  fitter  op¬ 
portunity  afterwards;  or  for  that  we  desire  to  make  our 
further  advantage  of  him  to  whom  we  mean  evil.  These 
courses  are  not  incident  into  an  Almighty  power,  who 
having  the  command  of  all  vengeance,  can  smite  where 
he  lists,  without  all  doubtings  or  delays.  There  can  be  no 
remission  without  satisfaction  :  neither  dealeth  God  with 
us  as  we  men  with  some  desperate  debtors,  whom  after 
long  dilations  of  payments  and  many  days  broken,  we  al¬ 
together  let  go  for  disability,  or  at  least  dismiss  them  upon 
an  easy  composition.  All  sins  are  debts :  all  God’s 


254 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


debts  must  be  discharged.  It  is  a  bold  word,  but  a  true 
— God  should  not  be  just,  if  any  of  his  debts  should  pass 
unsatisfied.  The  conceit  of  the  profane  vulgar,  makes 
him  a  God  of  all  mercies  ;  and  thereupon  hopes  for  par¬ 
don  without  payment.  Fond  and  ignorant  presumption  ! 
— to  disjoin  mercy  and  justice  in  him  to  whom  they  are 
both  essential,  to  make  mercy  exceed  justice  in  him  in 
whom  both  are  infinite.  Darest  thou  hope  God  can  be 
so  kind  to  thee  as  to  be  unjust  to  himself?  God  will  be 
just.  Go  thou  on  to  presume  and  perish.  There  can 
be  no  satisfaction  by  any  recompense  of  ours  :  an  infi¬ 
nite  justice  is  offended,  an  infinite  punishment  is  deser¬ 
ved  by  every  sin,  and  every  man’s  sins  are  as  near 
to  infinite  as  number  can  make  them.  Our  best  en¬ 
deavor  is  worse  than  finite — imperfect,  and  faulty.  If  it 
could  be  perfect,  we  owe  it  all  in  present.  What  we  are 
bound  to  do  in  present,  cannot  make  amends  for  what 
we  have  not  done  in  time  past ;  which  while  we  offer  to 
God  as  good  payment,  we  do,  with  the  profane  traveler, 
think  to  please  him  with  empty  date-shells  in  lieu  of  pre¬ 
servation.  Where  shall  we  then  find  a  payment  of  infi¬ 
nite  value,  but  in  him  which  is  only  and  all  infinite  ? — 
the  dignity  of  whose  person,  being  infinite,  gave  such 
worth  to  his  satisfaction,  that  what  he  suffered  in  short 
time,  was  proportionable  to  what  we  should  have  suffered 
beyond  all  times.  He  did  all,  suffered  all,  paid  all ;  he 
did  it  for  us  ;  we  in  him.  Where  shall  I  begin  to  won¬ 
der  at  thee,  O  thou  divine  and  eternal  Peacemaker, 
the  Saviour  of  men,  the  anointed  of  God,  Mediator  be¬ 
tween  God  and  man,  in  whom  there  is  nothing  which 
doth  not  exceed,  not  only  the  conceit,  but  the  very  won¬ 
der  of  angels,  who  saw  thee  in  thy  humiliation  with  si- 


SECTION  Y. 


✓ 


255 

lence,  and  adore  thee  in  thy  glory  with  perpetual  praises 
and  rejoicings  !  Thou  wast  forever  of  thyself  as  God, 
of  the  Father  as  the  Son, — the  eternal  Son  of  an  eter¬ 
nal  Father,  not  later  in  being,  not  less  in  dignity,  not 
other  in  substance.  Begotten  without  diminution  of 
Him  that  begot  thee,  while  he  communicated  that  wholly 
to  thee  which  he  retained  wholly  in  himself,  because 
both  were  infinite,  without  inequality  of  nature,  without 
division  of  essence ;  when  being  in  this  estate,  thine  in¬ 
finite  love  and  mercy  to  desperate  mankind  caused  thee, 
O  Saviour,  to  empty  thyself  of  thy  glory,  that  thou 
mightest  put  on  our  shame  and  misery.  Wherefore, 
not  ceasing  to  be  God  as  thou  wert,  thou  beganst  to  be 
what  thou  wert  not — Man  :  to  the  end  that  thou  mightst 
be  a  perfect  Mediator  betwixt  God  and  man ;  which  wert 
both  in  one  person, — God,  that  thou  mightst  satisfy,  man, 
that  thou  mightst  suffer  :  that  since  man  had  sinned  and 
God  was  offended,  thou,  which  wert  God  and  man, 
mightst  satisfy  God  for  man.  None  but  thyself,  which 
art  the  eternal  Word,  can  express  the  depth  of  this  mys¬ 
tery — that  God  should  be  clothed  with  flesh,  come  down 
to  men,  and  become  man,  that  man  might  be  exalted 
into  the  highest  heavens  ;  and  that  our  nature  might 
be  taken  into  the  fellowship  of  the  Deity  :  that  he  to 
whom  all  powers  in  heaven  bowed  and  thought  it  their 
honor  to  be  serviceable,  should  come  down  to  be  a  ser¬ 
vant  to  his  slaves,  a  ransom  for  his  enemies ;  together 
with  our  nature,  taking  up  our  very  infirmities,  our 
shame,  our  torments,  and  bearing  our  sins  without  sin  ; 
that  thou,  whom  the  heavens  were  too  straight  to  con¬ 
tain,  shouldst  lay  thyself  in  an  obscure  cratch ;  thou, 
which  wert  attended  of  angels,  shouldst  be  derided  of 


256 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


men,  rejected  of  thine  own,  persecuted  by  tyrants,  tempt¬ 
ed  with  devils,  betrayed  of  thy  servant,  crucified  among 
thieves,  and — which  was  worse  than  all  these — in  thine 
own  apprehension  for  the  time,  as  forsaken  of  thy  Fa¬ 
ther  :  that  thou,  whom  our  sins  had  pierced,  shouldst  for 
our  sins  both  sweat  drops  of  blood  in  the  garden  and 
pour  out  streams  of  blood  upon  the  cross  !  O  the  in¬ 
valuable  purchase  of  our  peace !  O  ransom  enough  for 
more  worlds  !  Thou  which  wert  in  the  counsel  of  thy 
Father  the  Lamb  slain  from  the  beginning  of  time, 
earnest  now  in  fullness  of  time  to  be  slain  by  man,  for 
man — being  at  once  the  Sacrifice  offered,  the  priest  that 
did  offer,  and  the  God  to  whom  it  was  offered.  How 
graciously  didst  thou,  both  proclaim  our  peace  as  a  Pro¬ 
phet  in  the  time  of  thy  life  upon  earth,  and  purchase 
it  by  thy  blood  as  a  Priest  at  thy  death,  and  now  con- 
firmest  and  appliest  it  as  a  King  in  heaven  !  By  thee 
only  it  was  procured  ;  by  thee  it  is  proffered.  O  mer¬ 
cy  without  example,  without  measure  !  God  offers  peace 
to  man,  the  holy  seeks  to  the  unjust,  the  potter  to  the  clay, 
the  king  to  the  traitor.  We  are  unworthy  that  we  should 
be  received  to  peace,  though  we  desired  it.  What  are 
we  then,  that  we  should  have  peace  offered  for  the  re¬ 
ceiving  ?  An  easy  condition  of  so  great  a  benefit !  He 
requires  us  not  to  earn  it,  but  to  accept  it  of  him.  What 
could  he  give  more  ?  What  could  he  require  less  of  us  ? 


SECTION  YI. 


257 


SECTION  VI. 

The  receipt  of  our  peace  offered  by  faith. — A  corol¬ 
lary  OF  THE  BENEFIT  OF  THIS  RECEIPT.  — TlIE  VAIN  SHIFTS 
OF  THE  GUILTY. 

The  purchase  therefore,  of  our  peace,  was  paid  at 
once  ;  yet  must  be  severally  reckoned  to  every  soul  whom 
it  shall  benefit.  If  we  have  not  an  hand  to  take  what 
Christ’s  hand  doth  either  hold  or  offer,  what  is  sufficient 
in  him  cannot  be  effectual  to  us.  The  spiritual  hand 
whereby  we  apprehend  the  sweet  offers  of  our  Saviour, 
is  faith  ;  which  in  short  is  rio  other  than  an  affiance  in 
the  Mediator.  Receive  peace  and  be  happy  :  believe, 
and  thou  hast  received.  From  hence  it  is  that  we  are  in- 
teressed  in  all  that  either  God  hath  promised,  or  Christ 
hath  performed.  Hence  have  we  from  God  both  for¬ 
giveness  and  love,  the  ground  of  all  either  peace  or  glo¬ 
ry.  Hence,  of  enemies  we  become  more  than  friends — 
sons ;  and  as  sons  may  both  expect  and  challenge  not 
only  careful  provision  and  safe  protection  on  earth, 
but  an  everlasting  patrimony  above.  This  field  is  so 
spacious  that  it  were  easy  for  a  man  to  lose  himself  in  it : 
and  if  I  should  spend  all  my  pilgrimage  in  this  walk,  my 
time  would  sooner  end  than  my  way — wherein  I  would 
have  measured  more  paces,  were  it  not  that  our  scope  is 
not  so  much  to  magnify  the  benefit  of  our  peace,  as  to 
seek  how  to  obtain  it. 

Behold  now,  after  we  have  sought  heaven  and  earth, 
where  only  the  wearied  dove  may  find  an  olive  of  peace ! 
The  apprehending  of  this  all-sufficient  satisfaction,  makes 
it  ours  ;  upon  our  satisfaction,  we  have  remission  ;  upon 
remission,  follows  reconciliation ;  upon  our  reconcilia- 
17 


258 


HEAVEN  ETON  EARTH. 


tion,  peace.  When  therefore  thy  conscience,  like  a 
stern  sergeant,  shall  catch  thee  by  the  throat  and  arrest 
thee  upon  God’s  debt,  let  thy  only  plea  be,  that  thou  hast 
already  paid  it.  Bring  forth  that  bloody  acquittance 
sealed  to  thee  from  heaven  upon  thy  true  faith  :  straight¬ 
way  thou  shalt  see  the  fierce  and  terrible  look  of  thy  con¬ 
science  changed  into  friendly  smiles,  and  that  rough  and 
violent  hand  that  was  ready  to  drag  thee  to  prison,  shall 
now  lovingly  embrace  thee,  and  fight  for  thee  against  all 
the  wrongful  attempts  of  any  spiritual  adversary.  O  hea¬ 
venly  peace,  and  more  than  peace — friendship — where¬ 
by  alone  we  are  leagued  with  ourselves,  and  God  with 
us  ;  which  whoever  wants,  shall  find  a  sad  remembran¬ 
cer  in  the  midst  of  his  dissembled  jollity;  and  after  all 
vain  strifes  shall  fall  into  many  secret  dumps,  from  which 
his  guilty  heart  shall  deny  to  be  cheered,  though  all  the 
world  were  his  minstrel !  0  pleasure  worthy  to  be  pit¬ 

ied,  and  laughter  worthy  of  tears,  that  is  without  this  ! 
Go  then,  foolish  man,  and  when  thou  feelest  any  check 
of  thy  sin,  seek  after  thy  jocundest  companions ;  deceive 
the  time  and  thyself  with  merry  purposes,  with  busy 
games ;  feast  away  thy  cares,  bury  them  and  thyself  in 
wine  and  sleep.  After  all  these  frivolous  deferrings,  it 
will  return  upon  thee  when  thou  wakest,  perhaps  ere  thou 
wakest,  nor  will  be  repelled  till  it  have  showed  thee  thy 
hell,  nor  when  it  hath  showed  thee,  will  yet  be  repelled. 
So  the  stricken  deer,  having  received  a  deadly  arrow 
whose  shaft  shaken  out  hath  left  the  head  behind  it,  runs 
from  one  thicket  to  another,  not  able  to  change  his  pain 
with  his  places,  but  finding  his  wounds  still  the  worse 
with  continuance.  Ah  fool,  thy  soul  festereth  within, 
and  is  affected  so  much  more  dangerously  by  how  much 


SECTION  VII. 


259 


less  it  appeareth.  Thou  mayest  while  thyself  with  vari¬ 
ety,  thou  canst  not  ease  thee.  Sin  owes  thee  a  spite, 
and  will  pay  it  thee ;  perhaps  when  thou  art  in  worst 
case  to  sustain  it.  This  flitting  doth  but  provide  for  a 
further  violence  at  last.  I  have  seen  a  little  stream,  of 
no  noise,  which  upon  his  stoppage  hath  swelled  up  and 
with  a  loud  gushing,  hath  borne  over  the  heap  of  turfs 
wherewith  it  was  resisted.  Thy  death-bed  shall  smart 
for  these  wilful  adjournings  of  repentance  ;  whereon  how 
many  have  we  heard  raving  of  their  old  neglected  sins, 
and  fearfully  despairing  when  they  have  had  most  need  of 
comfort !  In  sum,  there  is  no  way  but  this  :  thy  con¬ 
science  must  have  either  satisfaction  or  torment.  Dis¬ 
charge  thy  sin  betimes,  and  be  at  peace.  He  never 
breaks  his  sleep  for  debt,  that  pays  when  he  takes  up. 


SECTION  VII. 

Solicitation  of  sin  remedied. — The  ordering  of  affec¬ 
tions. 

Neither  can  it  suffice  for  peace,  to  have  crossed  the  old 
scroll  of  our  sins,  if  we  prevent  not  the  future — yea,  the 
present  very  importunity  of  tentation  breeds  unquietness. 
Sin,  where  it  hath  got  an  haunt,  looketh  for  more — as 
humors  that  fall  towards  their  old  issue — and  if  it  be  not 
strongly  repelled,  doth  near  as  much  vex  us  with  solici¬ 
ting,  as  with  yielding.  Let  others  envy  their  happiness  ; 
I  shall  never  think  their  life  so  much  as  quiet,  whose 
doors  are  continually  beaten,  and  their  morning  sleep 
broken,  with  early  clients ;  whose  entries  are  daily 
thronged  with  suitors  pressing  near  for  the  next  audience ; 


260 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


much  less,  that  through  their  remiss  answers  are  daily- 
haunted  with  traitors  or  other  instruments  of  villainy, 
offering  their  mischievous  service  and  inciting  them  to 
some  pestilent  enterprise.  Such  are  tentations  to  the 
soul :  whereof  it  cannot  be  rid  so  long  as  it  holds  them 
in  any  hope  of  entertainment ;  and  so  long  they  will  hope 
to  prevail,  while  we  give  them  but  a  cold  and  timorous 
denial.  Suitors  are  drawn  on  with  an  easy  repulse  ; 
counting  that  as  half  granted,  which  is  but  faintly  gain- 
sayed.  Peremptory  answers  can  only  put  sin  out  of  heart 
for  any  second  attempts.  It  is  ever  impudent  when  it 
meets  not  with  a  bold  heart ;  hoping  to  prevail  by  wea¬ 
rying  us,  and  wearying  us  by  entreaties.  Let  all  sug¬ 
gestions  therefore  find  thee  resolute.  So  shall  thy  soul 
find  itself  at  rest ;  for  as  the  devil,  so  sin — his  natural 
brood — flies  away  with  resistance.  To  which  purpose 
all  our  heady  and  disordered  affections — which  are  the 
secret  factors  of  sin  and  Satan — must  be  restrained  by  a 
strong  and  yet  temperate  command  of  reason  and  reli¬ 
gion.  The  e,  if  they  find  the  reins  loose  in  their  necks — 
like  to  the  wild  horses  of  that  chaste  hunter  in  the  trag¬ 
edy — carry  us  over  hills  and  rocks,  and  never  leave  us 
till  we  be  dismembered  and  they  breathless :  but,  con- 
trarily,  if  they  be  pulled  in  with  the  sudden  violence  of  a 
straight  hand,  they  fall  to  plunging  and  careering,  and  nev¬ 
er  leave  till  their  saddle  be  empty,  and  even  then  danger¬ 
ously  strike  at  their  prostrat  e  rider.  If  there  be  any  ex¬ 
ercise  of  Christian  wisdom,  it  is  in  the  managing  of  these 
unruly  affections,  which  are  not  more  necessary  in  their 
best  use  than  pernicious  in  their  misgovernance.  Rea¬ 
son  hath  always  been  busy,  in  undertaking  this  so  neces¬ 
sary  a  moderation :  wherein,  although  she  have  prevailed 


SECTION  VII. 


261 


with  some  of  colder  temper,  yet  those  which  have  been 
of  more  stubborn  mettle — like  unto  grown  scholars, 
which  scorn  the  ferule  that  ruled  their  minority — have 
still  despised  her  weak  endeavors.  Only  Christianity 
hath  this  power,  which  with  our  second  birth  gives  us  a 
new  nature :  so  that  now,  if  excess  of  passions  be  natu¬ 
ral  to  us  as  men,  the  order  of  them  is  natural  to  us  as 
Christians.  Reason  bids  the  angry  man  say  over  his 
alphabet  ere  he  give  his  answer ;  hoping  by  this  inter¬ 
mission  of  time  to  gain  the  mitigation  of  his  rage.  He 
was  never  thoroughly  angry,  that  can  endure  the  recital 
of  so  many  idle  letters.  Christianity  gives  not  rules, 
but  power,  to  avoid  this  short  madness.  It  was  a  wise 
speech  that  is  reported  of  our  best — and  last  cardinal,  I 
hope,  that  this  island  either  did  or  shall  see — who,  when 
a  skilful  astrologer,  upon  the  calculation  of  his  nativity, 
had  foretold  him  some  specialities  concerning  his  future 
estate,  answered,  ‘  Such  perhaps  I  was  born ;  but  since 
that  time  I  have  been  born  again,  and  my  second  nativ¬ 
ity  hath  crossed  my  first.’  The  power  of  nature  is  a 
good  plea  for  those  that  acknowledge  nothing  above  na¬ 
ture.  But  for  a  Christian  to  excuse  his  intemperateness 
by  his  natural  inclination,  and  to  say,  ‘I  am  born  choler¬ 
ic,  sullen,  amorous,’  is  an  apology  worse  than  the  fault. 
Wherefore  serves  religion,  but  to  subdue  or  govern  na¬ 
ture  ?  We  are  so  much  Christians  as  we  can  rule  our¬ 
selves  ;  the  rest  is  but  form  and  speculation.  Yea,  the 
very  thought  of  our  profession  is  so  powerful,  that — like 
unto  that  precious  stone — being  cast  into  the  sea,  it  as- 
suageth  those  inward  tempests  that  were  raised  by  the 
affections.  The  unregenerate  mind  is  not  capable  of 
this  power ;  and  therefore,  through  the  continual  muti- 


262 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 

nies  of  his  passions,  cannot  but  be  subject  to  perpetual 
unquietness.  There  is  neither  remedy  nor  hope  in  this 
estate.  But  the  Christian  soul,  that  hath  inured  itself 
to  the  awe  of  God  and  the  exercises  of  true  mortifica¬ 
tion,  by  the  only  looking  up  at  his  holy  profession,  cu- 
reth  the  burning  venom  of  these  fiery  serpents  that  lurk 
within  him.  Hast  thou  nothing  but  nature  ?  Resolve 
to  look  for  no  peace.  God  is  not  prodigal,  to  cast  away 
his  best  blessings  on  so  unworthy  subjects.  Art  thou  a 
Christian  ?  Do  but  remember  thou  art  so ;  and  then  if 
thou  darest,  if  thou  canst,  yield  to  the  excess  of  passions. 


SECTION  VIII. 

The  second  main  enemy  of  feace, — Crosses. 

Hitherto,  the  most  inward  and  dangerous  enemy  of 
our  peace:  which  if  we  have  once  mastered,  the  other  field 
shall  be  fought  and  won  with  less  blood.  Crosses  dis¬ 
quiet  us  either  in  their  present  feeling,  or  their  expecta¬ 
tion  :  both  of  them,  when  they  meet  with  weak  minds, 
so  extremely  distempering  them  that  the  patient,  for  the 
time,  is  not  himself.  How  many  have  we  known,  which 
through  a  lingering  disease,  weary  of  their  pain,  weary 
of  their  lives,  have  made  their  own  hands  their  execu¬ 
tioners  !  How  many,  meeting  with  an  headstrong  grief 
which  they  could  not  manage,  have  by  the  violence  of  it 
been  carried  quite  from  their  wits  !  How  many  mil¬ 
lions,  what  for  incurable  maladies,  what  for  losses,  what 
for  defamations,  what  for  sad  accidents  to  their  children, 
rub  out  their  lives  in  perpetual  discontentment — there¬ 
fore  living,  because  they  cannot  yet  die,  not  for  that  they 


SECTION  IX. 


263 


like  to  live  !  If  there  could  be  any  human  receipt  pre¬ 
scribed  to  avoid  evils,  it  would  be  purchased  at  an  high 
rate  ;  but  both  it  is  impossible  that  earth  should  redress 
that  which  is  sent  from  heaven,  and  if  it  could  be  done, 
even  the  want  of  miseries  would  prove  miserable ;  for 
the  mind  cloyed  with  a  continual  felicity,  would  grow  a 
burden  to  itself — lothing  that  at  last  which  intermission 
would  have  made  pleasant.  Give  a  free  horse  the  full 
reins,  and  he  will  soon  tire.  Summer  is  the  sweetest 
season,  by  all  consents,  wherein  the  earth  is  both  most 
rich  with  increase,  and  most  gorgeous  for  ornament ;  yet 
if  it  were  not  received  with  interchanges  of  cold  frosts 
and  piercing  winds,  who  could  live  ?  Summer  would  be 
no  Summer,  if  Winter  did  not  both  lead  it  in  and  follow 
it.  We  may  not  therefore  either  hope  or  strive  to  es¬ 
cape  all  crosses :  some  we  may.  What  thou  canst,  fly 
from  ;  what  thou  canst  not,  allay  and  mitigate.  In  cross¬ 
es,  universally,  let  this  be  thy  rule :  Make  thyself  none, 
escape  some,  bear  the  rest,  sweeten  all. 


SECTION  IX. 

Of  crosses  that  arise  from  conceit. 

Apprehension  gives  life  to  crosses ;  and  if  some  be 
simply,  most  are  as  they  are  taken.  I  have  seen  many, 
which  when  God  hath  meant  them  no  hurt,  have  framed 
themselves  crosses  out  of  imagination,  and  have  found 
that  insupportable  for  weight,  which  in  truth  never  was, 
neither  had  ever  any  but  a  fancied  being.  Others  again 
laughing  out  heavy  afflictions,  for  which  they  were  be¬ 
moaned  of  the  beholders.  One  receives  a  deadly  wound, 


264 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


and  looks  not  so  much  as  pale  at  the  smart ;  another 
hears  of  many  losses,  and  like  Zeno  after  news  of  his 
shipwreck — as  altogether  passionless — goes  to  his  rest, 
not  breaking  an  hour’s  sleep  for  that  which  would  break 
the  heart  of  some  others.  Greenham,  that  saint  of  ours 
— whom  it  cannot  disparage  that  he  was  reserved  for 
our  so  loose  an  age — can  lie  spread  quietly  upon  the 
form,  looking  for  the  chirurgeon’s  knife,  binding  himself 
as  fast  with  a  resolved  patience  as  others  with  strongest 
cords,  abiding  his  flesh  carved  and  his  bowels  rifled,  and 
not  stirring  more  than  if  he  felt  not,  while  others  trem¬ 
ble  to  expect,  and  shrink  to  feel,  but  the  pricking  of  a 
vein.  There  can  be  no  remedy  for  imaginary  crosses 
but  wisdom,  which  shall  teach  us  to  esteem  of  all  events 
as  they  are — like  a  true  glass  representing  all  things  to 
our  minds  in  their  due  proportion — so  as  crosses  may 
not  seem  that  are  not,  nor  little  and  gentle  ones  seem 
great  and  intolerable.  Give  thy  body  hellebore,  thy 
mind  good  counsel,  thine  ear  to  thy  friend,  and  these  fan 
tastical  evils  shall  vanish  away  like  themselves. 


SECTION  X. 

Of  true  and  read  crosses. 

It  were  idle  advice,  to  bid  men  avoid  evils.  Nature 
hath  by  a  secret  instinct  taught  brute  creatures  so  much 
— whether  wit  or  sagacity :  and  our  self-love,  making 
the  best  advantage  of  reason,  will  easily  make  us  so  wise 
and  careful.  It  is  more  worth  our  labor,  since  our  life 
is  so  open  to  calamities,  and  nature  to  impatience,  to 
teach  men  to  bear  what  evils  they  cannot  avoid,  and 


SECTION  XI. 


265 


how,  by  a  wr  ell-disposed  ness  of  mind,  we  may  correct 
the  iniquity  of  all  hard  events  :  wherein  it  is  hardly  cre¬ 
dible  how  much  good  art  and  precepts  of  resolution  may 
avail  us.  I  have  seen  one  man,  by  the  help  of  a  little 
engine,  lift  up  that  weight  alone,  which  forty  helping 
hands,  by  their  clear  strength,  might  have  endeavored 
in  vain.  We  live  here  in  an  ocean  of  troubles,  wherein 
we  can  see  no  firm  land — one  wave  falling  upon  another, 
ere  the  former  have  wrought  all  his  spite.  Mischiefs 
strive  for  places,  as  if  they  feared  to  lose  their  room  if 
they  hasted  not.  So  many  good  things  as  we  have,  so 
many  evils  arise*from  their  privation ;  besides  no  fewer 
real  and  positive  evils  that  afflict  us.  To  prescribe  and 
apply  receipts  to  every  particular  cross,  were  to  write  a 
Salmeron-like  commentary  upon  Petrarch’s  remedies  ; 
and  I  doubt  whether  so  the  work  would  be  perfect — a 
life  would  be  too  little  to  write  it,  and  but  enough  to 
read  it. 


SECTION  XI. 

The  first  remedy  of  crosses — before  they  come. 

The  same  medicines  cannot  help  all  diseases  of  the 
body;  of  the  soul,  they  may.  We  see  fencers  giver  their 
scholars  the  same  common  rules  of  position,  of  warding 
and  wielding  their  weapon  for  offence,  for  defence, 
against  all  comers.  Such  universal  precepts  there  are 
for  crosses.  In  the  first  whereof,  I  would  prescribe  ex¬ 
pectation,  that  either  killeth  or  abateth  evils.  For  cross¬ 
es,  after  the  nature  of  the  cockatrice,  die  if  they  be  fore¬ 
seen  ;  whether  this  providence  makes  us  more  strong  to 


266  HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 

resist,  or  by  some  secret  power  makes  them  more  unable 
to  assault  us.  It  is  not  credible,  what  a  fore-resolved 
mind  can  do,  can  suffer.  Could  our  English  Milo — of 
whom  Spain  yet  speaketh  since  their  last  peace — have 
overthrown  that  furious  beast,  made  now  more  violent  * 
through  the  rage  of  his  baiting,  if  he  had  not  settled  him¬ 
self  in  his  station,  and  expected  ?  The  frighted  multi¬ 
tude  ran  away  from  that  over-earnest  sport,  which  be¬ 
gun  in  pleasure,  ended  in  terror.  If  he  had  turned  his 
back  with  the  rest,  where  had  been  his  safety,  where  his 
glory,  and  reward  ?  Now  he  stood  still,  expected,  over¬ 
came  ;  by  one  fact  he  at  once  preserved,  honored,  en¬ 
riched  himself.  Evils  will  come  never  the  sooner  for 
that  thou  lookest  for  them  ;  they  will  come  the  easier  : 
it  is  a  labor  well  lost  if  they  come  not,  and  well  bestow¬ 
ed  if  they  do  come.  We  are  sure  the  worst  may  come ;  why 
should  we  be  secure  that  it  will  not  ?  Suddenness  finds 
weak  minds  secure,  makes  them  miserable,  leaves  them 
desperate.  The  best  way,  therefore,  is,  to  make  things 
present  in  conceit  before  they  come,  that  they  may  be 
half  past  in  their  violence  when  they  do  come — even  as 
with  wooden  wasters  we  learn  to  play  at  the  sharp.  As 
therefore  good  soldiers  exercise  themselves  long  at  the 
pale,  and  there  use  those  activities  which  afterwards  they 
shall  practice  upon  a  true  adversary,  so  must  we  present 
to  ourselves  imaginary  crosses,  and  manage  them  in  our 
mind  before  God  sends  them  in  event.  Now  I  eat, 
sleep,  digest,  all  soundly,  without  complaint.  What  if  a 
languishing  disease  should  bereave  me  of  my  appetite 
and  rest,  that  I  should  see  dainties  and  lothe  them,  sur¬ 
feiting  of  the  very  smell,  of  the  thought,  of  the  best 
dishes ! — that  I  should  count  the  lingering  hours,  and 


SECTION  XI. 


267 


think  Hezekiah’s  long  day  returned,  wearying  myself 
with  changing  sides,  and  wishing  anything  but  what  I 
am  !  How  could  I  take  this  distemper  ?  Now  I  have, 
if  not  what  I  would,  yet  what  I  need ;  as  not  abounding 
with  idle  superfluities,  so  not  straitened  with  penury  of 
necessary  things.  What  if  poverty  should  rush  upon  me 
as  an  armed  man,  spoiling  me  of  all  my  little  that  I  had, 
and  send  me  to  the  fountain  for  my  best  cellar,  to  the 
ground  for  my  bed,  for  my  bread  to  another’s  cupboard, 
for  my  clothes  to  the  broker’s  shop,  or  my  friend’s  ward¬ 
robe  !  Plow  could  I  brook  this  want  ?  I  am  now  at 
home,  walking  in  my  own  grounds,  looking  on  my  young 
plants  the  hope  of  posterity,  considering  the  nature,  ad¬ 
vantages,  or  fears  of  my  soil,  enjoying  the  patrimony  of 
my  fathers.  What  if,  for  my  religion  or  the  malicious 
sentence  of  some  great  one,  I  should  be  exiled  from  my 
country,  wandering  amongst  those  whose  habit,  lan¬ 
guage,  fashion,  my  ignorance  shall  make  me  wonder  at; 
where  the  solitude  of  places  and  strangeness  of  persons 
shall  make  my  life  uncomfortable  !  How  could  I  abide 
the  smell  of  foreign  smoke  ?  How  should  I  take  the 
contempt  and  hard  usage  that  waits  upon  strangers  ? 
Thy  prosperity  is  idle  and  ill-spent,  if  it  be  not  meddled 
with  such  forecasting  and  wisely-suspicious  thoughts — 
if  it  be  wholly  bestowed  in  enjoying,  no  whit  in  prevent¬ 
ing.  Like  unto  a  foolish  city,  which,  notwithstanding  a 
dangerous  situation,  spends  all  her  wealth  in  rich  furni¬ 
tures  of  chambers  and  state-houses,  while  they  bestow 
not  one  shovel-full  of  earth  on  outward  bulwarks  to 
their  defence,  this  is  but  to  make  our  enemies  the  hap¬ 
pier,  and  ourselves  the  more  readily  miserable.  If  thou 
wilt  not  therefore  be  oppressed  with  evils,  Expect  and 


268 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


Exercise.  Exercise  thyself  with  conceit  of  evils  ;  ex¬ 
pect  the  evils  themselves — yea,  exercise  thyself  in  ex¬ 
pectation  :  so  while  the  mind  pleaseth  itself  in  thinking, 
4  Yet  I  am  not  thus,’  it  prepareth  itself  against  it  may  be 
so.  And  if  some  that  have  been  good  at  the  foils  have 
proved  cowardly  at  the  sharp,  yet  on  the  contrary,  who¬ 
ever  durst  point  a  single  combat  in  the  field,  that  hath 
not  been  somewhat  trained  in  the  fence-school  ? 


SECTION  XII. 

The  next  remedy  of  crosses,  when  they  are  come  — From 

THEIR  AUTHOR. 

Neither  doth  it  a  little  blunt  the  edge  of  evils  to  con¬ 
sider  that  they  come  from  a  divine  hand,  whose  al¬ 
mighty  power  is  guided  by  a  most  wise  providence  and 
tempered  with  a  fatherly  love.  Even  the  savage  crea¬ 
tures  will  be  smitten  of  their  keeper  and  repine  not ;  if 
of  a  stranger,  they  tear  him  in  pieces.  He  strikes  me 
that  made  me,  that  moderates  the  world  :  why  struggle  I 
with  him? — why  with  myself?  Am  I  a  fool,  or  a  re¬ 
bel  ?  A  fool,  if  I  be  ignorant  whence  my  crosses 
come  :  a  rebel,  if  I  know  it  and  be  impatient.  My  suf¬ 
ferings  are  from  a  God,  from  my  God.  He  hath  des¬ 
tined  me  every  dram  of  sorrow  that  I  feel — 4  Thus  much 
thou  shalt  abide,  and  here  shall  thy  miseries  be  stinted.’ 
All  worldly  helps  cannot  abate  them,  all  powers  of  hell 
cannot  add  one  scruple  to  their  weight  that  he  hath  allot¬ 
ted  me.  I  must  therefore  either  blaspheme  God  in  my 
heart,  detracting  from  his  infinite  justice,  wisdom,  pow¬ 
er,  mercy, — which  all  shall  stand  inviolable,  when  mil- 


SECTION  XIII. 


269 


lions  of  such  worms  as  I  am,  are  gone  to  dust — or  else 
confess  that  I  ought  to  be  patient.  And  if  I  profess  I 
should  be  that  I  will  not,  I  befool  myself  and  bewray 
miserable  impotency.  But  as  impatience  is  full  of 
excuse, — it  was  thine  own  rash  improvidence  or  the 
spite  of  thine  enemy  that  impoverished,  that  defamed 
thee  :  it  was  the  malignity  of  some  unwholesome  dish,  or 
some  gross,  corrupted  air,  that  hath  distempered  thee.  Ah, 
foolish  cur,  why  dost  thou  bite  at  the  stone,  which  could 
never  have  hurt  thee  but  from  the  hand  that  threw  it  ? 
If  I  wound  thee,  what  matters  it  whether  with  mine  own 
sword,  or  thine,  or  another’s  ?  God  strikes  some  imme¬ 
diately  from  heaven,  with  his  own  arm  or  with  the  arm  of 
angels  ;  others  he  buffets  with  their  own  hands  ;  some  by 
the  revenging  sword  of  an  enemy  ;  others  with  the  fist  of 
his  dumb  creatures — God  strikes  in  all ;  his  hand  moves 
theirs.  If  thou  see  it  not,  blame  thy  carnal  eyes.  Why 
dost  thou  fault  the  instrument,  while  thou  knowest  the 
agent?  Even  the  dying  thief  pardons  the  executioner, 
exclaims  on  his  unjust  judge,  or  his  malicious  accusers. 
Either  then  blame  the  first  mover,  or  discharge  the 
means  ;  which,  as  they  could  not  have  touched  thee  but  as 
from  him,  so  from  him  they  have  afflicted  thee  justly — 
wrongfully  perhaps  as  in  themselves. 


SECTION  XIII. 

The  third  antidote  of  crosses. 

But  neither  seemeth  it  enough  to  be  patient  in  crosses, 
if  we  be  not  thankful  also.  Good  things  challenge  more 
than  bare  contentment.  Crosses — unjustly  termed  evils 


270 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


— as  they  are  sent  of  him  that  is  all  goodness,  so  they 
are  sent  for  good,  and  his  end  cannot  be  frustrate.  What 
greater  good  can  be  to  the  diseased  man,  than  fit  and 
proper  physic  to  recure  him  ?  Crosses  are  the  only 
medicines  of  sick  minds.  Thy  sound  body  carries  with¬ 
in  it  a  sick  soul.  Thou  feelest  it  not  perhaps — so  much 
more  art  thou  sick,  and  so  much  more  dangerously.  Per¬ 
haps  thou  laborest  of  some  plethora  of  pride,  or  of  some 
dropsy  of  covetousness,  or  the  staggers  of  inconstancy, 
or  some  fever  of  luxury,  or  consumption  of  envy,  or  per¬ 
haps  of  the  lethargy  of  idleness,  or  of  the  phrensy  of  an¬ 
ger  :  it  is  a  rare  soul  that  hath  not  some  notable  disease 
— only  crosses  are  thy  remedies.  What  if  they  be  un¬ 
pleasant  ?  They  are  physic  :  it  is  enough  if  they  be  whole¬ 
some.  Not  pleasant  taste,  but  the  secret  virtue  com¬ 
mends  medicines.  If  they  cure  thee,  they  shall  please 
thee  even  in  displeasing ;  or  else  thou  lovest  thy  palate 
above  thy  soul.  What  madness  is  this  ?  When  thou 
complainest  of  a  bodily  disease,  thou  sendest  to  the  phy¬ 
sician  that  he  may  send  thee  not  savory,  but  wholesome, 
potions.  Thou  receivest  them  in  spite  of  thine  abhorring 
stomach,  and  withal  both  thankest  and  rewardest  the 
physician.  Thy  soul  is  sick.  Thy  heavenly  Physician 
sees  it,  and  pities  thee  ere  thou  thyself,  and  unsent  to, 
sends  thee  not  a  plausible,  but  a  sovereign  remedy.  Thou 
loathest  the  savor,  and  rather  wilt  hazard  thy  life  than 
offend  thy  palate  :  and  instead  of  thanks,  repinest  at, 
revilest  the  Physician.  How  comes  it  that  we  love 
ourselves  so  little — if  at  least  we  count  our  souls  the  best 
or  any  part — as  that  we  had  rather  undergo  death  than 
pain,  choosing  rather  wilful  sickness  than  an  harsh  reme¬ 
dy  ?  Surely  we  men  are  mere  fools  in  the  estimation  of 


SECTION  XIV. 


271 


our  own  good  :  like  children,  our  choice  is  led  altogether 
by  show,  no  whit  by  substance.  We  cry  after  every  well- 
seeming  toy,  and  put  from  us  solid  proffers  of  good  things. 
The  wise  Arbitrator  of  all  things  sees  our  folly  and  cor¬ 
rects  it,  withholding  our  idle  desires,  and  forcing  upon 
us  the  sound  good  we  refuse.  It  is  second  folly  in  us, 
if  we  thank  him  not.  The  foolish  babe  cries  for  his  fa¬ 
ther’s  bright  knife  or  gilded  pills.  The  wiser  father 
knows  that  they  can  but  hurt  him,  and  therefore  with¬ 
holds  them  after  all  his  tears.  The  child  thinks  he  is 
used  but  unkindly.  Every  wise  man,  and  himself  at 
more  years,  can  say  it  was  but  childish  folly  in  desiring 
it,  in  complaining  that  he  missed  it.  The  loss  of  wealth, 
friends,  health,  is  sometimes  gain  to  us.  Thy  body,  thy 
estate,  is  worse — thy  soul  is  better :  why  complainest 
thou  ? 


SECTION  XIV. 

The  fourth  and  last  part. — From  their  issue. 

Nay,  it  shall  not  be  enough,  methinks,  if  only  we  be 
but  contented  and  thankful,  if  not  also  cheerful  in  afflic¬ 
tions  :  if  that,  as  we  feel  their  pain,  so  we  look  to  their 
end — although,  indeed,  this  is  not  more  requisite  than 
rarely  found,  as  being  proper  only  to  the  good  heart. 
Every  bird  can  sing  in  a  clear  heaven,  in  a  temperate 
Spring ;  that  one,  as  most  familiar  so  is  most  commend¬ 
ed,  that  sings  merry  notes  in  the  middest  of  a  shower  or 
the  dead  of  winter.  Every  epicure  can  enlarge  his 


272 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


heart  to  mirth  in  the  midst  of  his  cups  and  dalliance ; 
only  the  three  children  can  sing  in  the  furnace,  Paul 
and  Silas  in  the  stocks,  martyrs  at  the  stake.  It  is 
from  heaven  that  this  joy  comes,  so  contrary  to  all  earth¬ 
ly  occasions,  bred  in  the  faithful  heart  through  a  serious 
and  feeling  respect  to  the  issue  of  what  he  feels ;  the  qui¬ 
et  and  untroubled  fruit  of  his  righteousness — glory,  the 
crown  after  his  fight  ;  after  his  minute  of  pain,  eternity 
of  joy.  He  never  looked  over  the  threshold  of  heaven, 
that  cannot  more  rejoice  that  he  shall  be  glorious,  than 
mourn  in  present  that  he  is  miserable. 


SECTION  XV. 

► 

Of  the  importunity  and  terror  of  death. 

Yea,  this  consideration  is  so  powerful  that  it  alone  is 
able  to  make  a  part  against  the  fear  or  sense  of  the  last 
an  greatest  of  all  terribles — Death  itself — which  in  the 
conscience  of  his  own  dreadfulness,  justly  laughs  at  all  the 
vain  human  precepts  of  tranquillity,  appalling  the  most  re¬ 
solute,  and  vexing  the  most  cheerful  minds.  Neither  pro¬ 
fane  Lucretius,  with  all  his  epicurean  rules  of  confidence, 
nor  drunken  Anacreon,  with  all  his  wanton  odes,  can  shift 
off  the  importunate  and  violent  horror  of  this  adversary. 
Seest  thou  the  Chaldean  tyrant  beset  with  the  sacred 
bowls  of  Jerusalem,  the  late  spoils  of  God’s  temple, 
and  in  contempt  of  their  Owner,  carousing  healths  to  his 
queens,  concubines,  peers,  singing  amidst  his  cups  trium¬ 
phant  carols  of  praise  to  his  molten  and  carved  gods  ? 
Wouldst  thou  ever  suspect  that  this  high  courage  could 
be  abated,  or  that  this  sumptuous^and  presumptuous  ban- 


SE  C  TION  XV. 


273 


quet,  after  so  royal  and  jocund  continuance,  should 
have  any  other  conclusion  but  pleasure  ?  Stay  but  one 
hour  longer,  and  thou  shalt  see  that  face  that  now  shines 
with  a  ruddy  gloss — according  to  the  color  of  his  liquor — 
look  pale  and  ghastly,  stained  with  the  colors  of  fear  and 
death ;  and  that  proud  hand,  which  now  lifts  up  her  massy 
goblets  in  defiance  of  God,  tremble  like  a  leaf  in  a  stormy 
and  those  strong  knees  which  never  stooped  to  the  bur¬ 
den  of  their  laden  body,  now  not  able  to  bear  up  them¬ 
selves,  but  loosened  with  a  sudden  palsy  of  fear,  one* 
knocking  against  the  other :  and  all  this  for  that  death 
writes  him  a  letter  of  summons  to  appear  that  night  be¬ 
fore  him ;  and  accordingly  ere  the  next  sun,  sent  two 
eunuchs  for  his  honorable  conveyance  into  another 
world.  Where  now  are  those  delicate  morsels,  those 
deep  draughts,  those  merry  ditties,  wherewith  the  pal¬ 
ate  and  ear  so  pleased  themselves  ?  What  is  now  be¬ 
come  of  all  those  cheerful  looks,  loose  laughters,  stately 
port,  revels,  triumphs  of  the  feasting  court  ?  Why  doth 
none  of  his  gallant  nobles  revive  the  fainted  courage  of 
their  lord  with  a  new  cup,  or  with  some  stirring  jest 
shake  him  out  of  this  unseasonable  melancholy  ?  G 
death,  how  imperious  art  thou  to  carnal  minds ! — aggra¬ 
vating  their  misery  not  only  by  expectation  of  future- 
pain,  but  by  the  remembrance  of  the  wonted  causes  of 
their  joy ;  and  not  suffering  them  to  see  aught  bat 
what  may  torment  them.  Even  that  monster  of  Cesars 
that  had  been  so  well  acquainted  with  blood  and  never 
had  found  better  sport  than  in  cutting  of  throats, 
when  now  it  came  to  his  own  turn,  how  effeminate,  how 
desperately  cowardous  did  he  show  himself- — to  the  won- 

18 


•274 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


der  of  all  readers,  that  he  which  was  ever  so  valiant 
in  killing,  should  be  so  womanishly  heartless  in  dying  ! 


SECTION  NVI. 

The  grounds  of  the  fear  of  death. 

There  are,  that  fear  not  so  much  to  be  dead  as  to  die  ; 
*  the  very  act  of  dissolution  frighting  them  with  a  tor¬ 
menting  expectation  of  a  short  but  intolerable  painful¬ 
ness.  Which  let,  if  the  wisdom  of  God  had  not  inter¬ 
posed  to  timorous  nature,  there  would  have  been  many 
more  Lucretias,  Cleopatras,  Ahithophels  ;  and  good  laws 
should  have  found  little  opportunity  of  execution,  through 
the  wilful  funerals  of  malefactors.  F or  the  soul  that  comes 
into  the  body  without  any,  at  least  sensible,  pleasure,  de¬ 
parts  not  from  it  without  an  extremity  of  pain  ;  which  va¬ 
rying  according  to  the  manner  and  means  of  separation, 
yet  in  all  violent  deaths  especially,  retaineth  a  violence  not 
to  be  avoided,  hard  to  be  endured.  And  if  diseases  which 
are  destined  towards  death  as  their  end,  be  so  painful, 
what  must  the  end  and  perfection  of  diseases  be  ? — since 
as  diseases  are  the  maladies  of  the  body,  so  death  is  the 
malady  of  diseases.  There  are,  that  fear  not  so  much 
to  die  as  to  be  dead.  If  the  pang  be  bitter,  yet  it  is  but 
short.  The  comfortless  state  of  the  dead  strikes  some 
that  could  well  resolve  for  the  act  of  their  passage.  Not 
the  worst  of  the  heathen  emperors  made  that  moanful 
ditty  on  his  death-bed,  wherein  he  bewrayeth  to  all  me¬ 
mory  much  feeling  pity  of  his  soul,  for  her  doubtful  and 
impotent  condition  after  her  parture.  Flow  doth  Pla- 


SECTION  XVI. 


275 


to’s  worldling  bewail  the  misery  of  the  grave,  besides  all 
respect  of  pain  ! — ‘  Woe  is  me,  that  I  shall  lie  alone  rot¬ 
ting  in  the  silent  earth  amongst  the  crawling  worms,  not 
seeing  aught  above,  not  seen.’1  Very  not-being  is  suf¬ 
ficiently  abhorred  of  nature,  if  death  had  no  more  to 
make  it  fearful.  But  those  that  have  lived  under  light 
enough  to  show  them  the  gates  of  hell  after  their  pas¬ 
sage  thorough  the  gates  of  death,  and  have  learned  that 
death  is  not  only  horrible  for  our  not-being  here,  but 
for  being  infinitely,  eternally  miserable  in  a  future  world, 
nor  so  much  for  the  dissolution  of  life  as  the  beginning 
of  torment, — those  cannot,  without  the  certain  hope  of 
their  immunity,  but  carnally  fear  to  die  and  hellishly 
fear  to  be  dead.  For  if  it  be  such  pain  to  die,  what  is 
it  to  be  ever  dying  ?  And  if  the  straining  or  luxation 
of  one  joint  can  so  afflict  us,  what  shall  the  racking  of 
the  whole  body,  and  the  torturing  of  the  soul,  whose  an¬ 
imation  alone  makes  the  body  to  feel  and  complain  of 
smart  ?  And  if  men  have  devised  such  exquisite  tor¬ 
ments,  what  can  spirits,  more  subtil,  more  malicious  ? 
And  if  our  momentary  sufferings  seem  long,  how  long 
shall  that  be  that  is  eternal  ?  And  if  the  sorrows  indif¬ 
ferently  incident  to  God’s  dear  ones  upon  earth  be  so  ex¬ 
treme  as  sometimes  to  drive  them  within  sight  of  despair¬ 
ing,  what  shall  those  be  that  are  reserved  only  for  those 
that  hate  him,  and  that  he  hateth  ?  None  but  those  who 
have  heard  the  desperate  complaints  of  some  guilty 
Spyra,  or  whose  souls  have  been  a  little  scorched  with 
these  flames,  can  enough  conceive  of  the  horror  of  this 
estate — it  being  the  policy  of  our  common  enemy  to 


1  ’£2 /j.01  7 tote  tcdcojuai,  k.  t.  /I. 


276 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


conceal  it  so  long  that  we  may  see  and  feel  it  at  once, 
lest  we  should  fear  it  before  it  be  too  late  to  be  avoided. 


SECTION  XVII. 

Remedy'  of  the  last  and  greatest  breach  of  peace, 

ARISING  FROM  DEATH. 

Now  when  this  great  adversary,  like  a  proud  giant, 
comes  stalking  out  in  his  fearful  shape  and  insults  over 
our  frail  mortality,  daring  the  world  to  match  him  with 
an  equal  champion,  whiles  a  whole  host  of  worldlings 
show  him  their  backs  for  fear,  the  true  Christian — arm¬ 
ed  only  with  confidence  and  resolution  of  his  future  hap¬ 
piness— Alares  boldly  encounter  him,  and  can  wound  him 
in  the  forehead,  the  wonted  seat  of  terror,  and  trampling 
upon  him  can  cut  off  his  head  with  his  own  sword,  and 
victoriously  returning,  can  sing  in  triumph,  1  O  death, 
where  is  thy  sting?’  An  happy  victory!  We  die  and 
are  not  foiled ;  yea,  we  are  conquerors  in  dying :  we 
could  not  overcome  death  if  we  died  not.  That  dissolu¬ 
tion  is  well  bestowed,  that  parts  the  soul  from  the  body 
that  it  may  unite  both  to  God.  All  our  life  here — as 
that  heavenly  doctor1  well  terms  it — is  but  a  vital  death. 
How  advantageous  is  that  death  that  determines  this 
false  and  dying  life,  and  begins  a  true  one  above  all  the 
titles  of  happiness  !  The  Epicure  or  Sadducee  dare  not 
die,  for  fear  of  not  being.  The  guilty  and  loose  world¬ 
ling  dares  not  die,  for  fear  of  being  miserable.  The  dis¬ 
trustful  and  doubting  semi-Christian  dares  not  die,  be- 


1  Augustine. 


SECTION  XVII. 


277 


cause  lie  knows  not  whether  he  shall  be,  or  be  miserable, 
or  not  be  at  all.  The  resolved  Christian  dares  and 
would  die,  because  he  knows  he  shall  be  happy ;  and 
looking  merrily  towards  heaven,  the  place  of  his  rest,  can 
unfeignedly  say,  ‘  I  desire  to  be  dissolved :  I  see  thee, 
my  home,  I  see  thee — a  sweet  and  glorious  home  after  a 
weary  pilgrimage — I  see  thee ;  and  now  after  many  lin¬ 
gering  hopes  I  aspire  to  thee.  How  oft  have  I  looked  up 
at  thee  with  admiration  and  ravishment  of  soul,  and  by 
the  goodly  beams  that  I  have  seen,  guessed  at  the  glory 
that  is  above  them !  IIow  oft  have  1  scorned  these  dead 
and  unpleasant  pleasures  of  earth,  in  comparison  of  thine ! 
I  come  now,  my  joys,  I  come  to  possess  you  :  I  come 
through  pain  and  death  ;  yea,  if  hell  itself  were  in  the 
way  betwixt  you  and  me,  I  would  pass  through  hell  it¬ 
self  to  enjoy  you  !’  And,  in  truth,  if  that  heathen  Cle- 
ombrotus' — a  follower  of  the  ancient  academy — but  up¬ 
on  only  reading  his  master  Plato’s  discourses  of  the  im¬ 
mortality  of  the  soul,  could  cast  down  himself  headlong 
from  an  high  rock  and  wilfully  break  his  neck,  that  he 
might  be  possessed  of  that  immortality  which  he  believed 
to  follow  upon  death,  how  contented  should  they  be  to 
die,  that  know  they  shall  be  more  than  immortal — glori¬ 
ous  !  He  went  not  in  an  hate  of  the  flesh,  as  the  Patrician 
heretics1 2  of  old,  but  in  a  blind  love  to  his  soul,  out  of  bare 
opinion ;  we,  upon  an  holy  love  grounded  upon  assured 
knowledge  :  he,  upon  an  opinion  of  future  life ;  we  on 
knowledge  of  future  glory :  he  went  unsent  for  ;  we,  call¬ 
ed  for  by  our  Maker.  Why  should  his  courage  exceed 
ours,  since  our  ground,  our  estate,  so  far  exceeds  his  ? 


1  Tull.  Tuscul. — Callimach.  Epigram. 

2  August. — de  Hasres. 


278 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


Even  this  age,  within  the  reach  of  our  memory,  bred 
that  peremptory  Italian,  which,  in  imitation  of  old  Ro¬ 
man  courage — lest  in  that  degenerated  nation  there  should 
be  no  step  left  of  the  qualities  of  their  ancestors — enter¬ 
ing  upon  his  torment  for  killing  a  tyrant,  cheered  him¬ 
self  with  this  confidence,1  ‘  My  death  is  sharp,  my  fame 
shall  be  everlasting.’ — The  voice  of  a  Roman,  not  of  a 
Christian.  My  fame  shall  be  eternal : — an  idle  comfort. 
My  fame  shall  live — not  my  soul  live  to  see  it.  What 
shall  it  avail  thee  to  be  talked  of,  while  thou  art  not  ? 
Then  fame  only  is  precious,  when  a  man  lives  to  en¬ 
joy  it.  The  fame  that  survives  the  soul,  is  bootless. 
Yet  even  this  hope  cheered  him  against  the  violence  of 
his  death.  What  should  it  do  us,  that  not  our  fame  but 
our  life,  our  glory  after  death,  cannot  die  ?  He  that 
hath  Stephen’s  eyes  to  look  into  heaven,  cannot  but  have 
the  tongue  of  the  saints,  ‘  Come  Lord  :  how  long  ?’  That 
man,  seeing  the  glory  of  the  end,  cannot  but  contemn  the 
hardness  of  the  way.  But  who  wants  those  eyes,  if  he 
say  and  swears  that  he  fears  not  death,  believe  him  not ; 
if  he  protest  this  tranquillity,  and  yet  fear  death,  believe 
him  not ;  believe  him  not,  if  he  say  he  is  not  miserable. 


SECTION  XVIII. 

The  second  rank  of  the  enemies  of  peace. — The  first 

ENEMY  ON  THE  RIGHT  HAND. 

These  are  enemies  on  the  left  hand.  There  want 
not  some  on  the  right,  which  with  less  profession  of  hos- 


2  Mors  acerba,  Fama  perpetua. 


SECTION  XVIII. 


279 


tility,  hurt  no  less.  Not  so  easily  perceived  because 
they  distemper  the  mind,  not  without  some  kind  of  plea¬ 
sure.  Surfeit  kills  more  than  famine.  These  are  the 
over-desiring  and  over-joying  of  these  earthly  things. 
All  immoderations  are  enemies,  as  to  health,  so  to  peace. 
He  that  desires,  wants  as  much  as  he  that  hath  nothing.1 
The  drunken  man  is  as  thirsty  as  the  sweating  traveler. 
Hence  are  the  studies,  cares,  fears,  jealousies,  hopes, 
griefs,  envies,  wishes,  platforms  of  achieving,  alterations 
of  purposes  and  a  thousand  like  ;  wffiereof  each  one  is 
enough  to  make  the  life  troublesome.  One  is  sick  of 
his  neighbor’s  field,  whose  misshapen  angles  disfigure 
his,  and  hinder  his  lordship  of  entireness — what  he  hath 
is  not  regarded,  for  the  want  of  what  he  cannot  have. 
Another  feeds  on  crusts,  to  purchase  what  he  must  leave 

perhaps,  to  a  fool,  or — which  is  not  much  better — to  a 

( 

prodigal  heir.  Another,  in  the  extremity  of  covetous 
folly,  chooses  to  die  an  unpitied  death,  hanging  himself 
for  the  fall  of  the  market ;  while  the  commons  laugh  at 
the  loss  and  in  their  speeches  epitaph  upon  him  as  on 
that  pope- — ‘  He  lived  as  a  wolf,  and  died  as  a  dog.’  One 
cares  not  what  attendance  he  dances  at  all  hours,  on 
whose  stairs  he  sits,  what  vices  he  soothes,  what  deform¬ 
ities  he  imitates,  what  servile  offices  he  doth,  in  an  hope 
to  rise.  Another  stomachs  the  covered  head  and  stiff 
knee  of  his  inferior ;  angry  that  other  men  think  him  not 
so  good  as  he  thinks  himself.  Another  eats  his  own 
heart  with  envy  at  the  richer  furniture  and  better  estate 
or  more  honor  of  his  neighbor ;  thinking  his  own  not 
good,  because  another  hath  better.  Another  vexeth 


1  Hippocr.  Aphoris. 


•280 


HEAVEN  UFON  EARTH. 


himself  with  a  word  of  disgrace  passed'  from  the  mouth 
of  an  enemy,  which  he  neither  can  digest  nor  cast  up  ; 
•resolving,  because  another  will  be  his  enemy,  to  be  his 
own.  These  humors  are  as  manifold  as  there  are  men 
that  seem  prosperous.  For  the  avoiding  of  all  which  ri¬ 
diculous,  and  yet  spiteful  inconveniences,  the  mind  must 
be  settled  in  a  persuasion  of  the  worthlessness  of  these 
outward  things.  Let  it  know  that  these  riches  have 
made  many  prouder,  none  better  :  that  as  never  man 
was,  so  never  wise  man  thought  himself,  better  for  en¬ 
joying  them.  Would  that  wise  philosopher1  have  cast 
his  gold  into  the  sea,  if  he  had  not  known  he  should 
live  more  happily  without  it?  If  he  knew  not  the  use 
of  riches,  he  was  no  wise  man  ;  if  he  knew  not  the  best 
way  to  quietness,  he  was  no  philosopher  :  now  even  by 
the  voice  of  their  oracle,  he  was  confessed  to  be  both — 
yet  cast  away  his  gold  that  he  might  be  happy.  Would 
that  wise  prophet  have  prayed  as  well  against  riches  as 
poverty  ?  Would  so  many  great  men — whereof  our  lit¬ 
tle  island  hath  yielded  nine  crowned  kings,  while  it  was 
held  of  old  by  the  Saxons — after  they  had  continued 
their  life  in  the  throne,  have  ended  it  in  the  cell,  and 
changed  their  sceptre  for  a  book,  if  they  could  have 
found  as  much  felicity  in  the  highest  estate,  as  security 
in  the  lowest  ?  I  hear  Peter  and  John,  the  eldest  and 
dearest  apostles,  say,  4  Gold  and  silver  have  1  none  I 
hear  the  devil  say,  ‘  All  these  will  I  give  thee,  and  they 
are  mine  to  give.’  Whether  shall  I  desire  to  be  in  the 
state  of  these  saints,  or  that  devil  ?  He  was  therefore  a 
better  husband  than  a  philosopher,  that  first  termed  riches 


1  Socrates. 


SECTION  XIX. 


281 


( goods and  he  mended  the  title  well,  that,  adding  a  fit 
epithet,  called  them  1  goods  of  fortune  ’ — false  goods  as¬ 
cribed  to  a  false  patron.  There  is  no  fortune,  to  give 
or  guide  riches  ;  there  is  no  true  goodness  in  riches  to  be 
guided.  His  meaning  then  was,  as  I  can  interpret  it,  to 
teach  us  in  this  title,  that  it  is  a  chance  if  ever  riches 
were  good  to  any.  In  sum,  who  would  account  those  as 
riches,  or  those  riches  as  goods,  which  hurt  the  owner, 
disquiet  others ;  which  the  worst  have,  which  the  best 
have  not ;  which  those  that  have  not,  want  not ;  which 
those  want  that  have  them ;  which  are  lost  in  a  night, 
and  a  man  is  not  worse  when  he  hath  lost  them  ?  It  is 
true  of  them,  that  we  say  of  fire  and  water,  they  are 
good  servants,  ill  masters.  Make  them  thy  slaves,  they 
shall  be  goods  indeed — in  use,  if  not  in  nature — good  to 
thyself,  good  to  others  by  thee.  But  if  they  be  thy 
masters,  thou  hast  condemned  thyself  to  thine  own  gal¬ 
leys.  If  a  servant  rule,  he  proves  a  tyrant.  What  mad¬ 
ness  is  this  ? — thou  hast  made  thyself  at  once  a  slave 
and  a  fool.  What  if  thy  chains  be  of  gold,  or  if,  with 
Heliogabalus,  thou  hast  made  thee  silken  halters  ! — thy 
servitude  may  be  glorious :  it  is  no  less  miserable. 


SECTION  XIX. 

The  second  enemy  on  the  right  hand, —  honor. 

Honor  perhaps  is  yet  better — such  is  the  confused 
opinion  of  those  that  know  little — but  a  distinct  and  cu¬ 
rious  head  shall  find  an  hard  task,  to  define  in  what  point 
the  goodness  thereof  consisteth.  Is  it  in  high  descent  of 
blood  ?  I  would  think  so  if  nature  were  tied  by  any  law 


282 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


to  produce  children  like  qualitied  to  their  parents.  But 
although  in  the  brute  creatures  she  be  ever  thus  regular, 
that  ye  shall  never  find  a  young  pigeon  hatched  in  an  ea¬ 
gle’s  nest ;  neither  can  I  think  that  true — or  if  true,  it 
was  monstrous — that  Nicippus  his  sheep  should  yean  a 
lion,  yet  in  the  best  creature,  which  hath  his  form  and 
her  attending  qualities  from  above,  with  a  likeness  of 
face  and  features,  is  commonly  found  an  unlikeness  of 
disposition  :  only  the  earthly  part  follows  the  seed — wis¬ 
dom,  valor,  virtue,  are  of  another  beginning.  Shall  I 
bow  to  a  molten  calf,  because  it  was  made  of  golden  ear¬ 
rings?  Shall  I  condemn  all  honor  of  the  first  head, 
though  upon  never  so  noble  deserving,  because  it  can 
show  nothing  before  itself  but  a  white  shield  ?  If  Cae¬ 
sar  or  Agathocles  be  a  potter’s  son,  shall  I  contemn  him  ? 
Or  if  wise  Bion  be  the  son  of  an  infamous  courtezan, 
shall  the  censorious  lawyer  rase  him  out  of  the  catalogue 
with  ‘Partus  sequitur  ventrem?’1  Lastly,  shall  lac- 
count  that  good,  which  is  incident  to  the  worst  ?  Either, 
therefore,  greatness  must  show  some  charter  wherein  it 
is  privileged  with  succession  of  virtue,  or  else  the  good¬ 
ness  of  honor  cannot  consist  in  blood.  Is  it  then  in  the 
admiration  and  high  opinion  that  others  have  conceived 
of  thee,  which  draws  all  dutiful  respect  and  humble  offi¬ 
ces  from  them  to  thee  ?  0  fickle  good,  that  is  ever  in 

the  keeping  of  others  ! — especially  of  the  unstable  vul¬ 
gar,  that  beast  of  many  heads ;  whose  divided  tongues, 
as  they  never  agree  with  each  other,  so  seldom,  when¬ 
ever,  agree  long  with  themselves.  Do  we  not  see  the 
superstitious  Lystrians,  that  ere  while  would  needs  make 


1  Olympia.  Diog.  Laert. 


SE  CTION  XIX. 


283 


Paul  a  god  against  his  will,  and  in  devout  zeal  drew 
crowned  bulls  to  the  altars  of  their  new  Jupiter  and 
Mercury — violence  can  scarce  hold  them  from  sacrific¬ 
ing  to  him — now  not  many  hours  after  gather  up  stones 
against  him ;  having  in  their  conceits,  turned  him  from 
a  god  into  a  malefactor,  and  are  ready  to  kill  him,  in¬ 
stead  of  killing  a  sacrifice  to  him  ?  Such  is  the  multitude  ; 
and  such  the  steadfastness  of  their  honor.  There  then 
only  is  true  honor,  where  blood  and  virtue  meet 
together :  the  greatness  whereof  is  from  blood,  the 
goodness  from  virtue.  Rejoice,  ye  great  men,  that 

your  blood  is  ennobled  with  the  virtues  and  deserts 

_  » 

of  your  ancestors  !  This  only  is  yours  :  this  only  chal¬ 
lenged!  all  unfeigned  respect  of  your  inferiors.  Count 
it  praiseworthy,  not  that  you  have,  but  that  you  deserve 
honor.  Blood  may  be  tainted  :  the  opinion  of  the  vul¬ 
gar  cannot  be  constant :  only  virtue  is  ever  like  itself, 
and  only  wins  reverence,  even  of  those  that  hate  it. 
Without  which,  greatness  is  as  a  beacon  of  vice,  to  draw 
men’s  eyes  the  more  to  behold  it ;  and  those  that  see  it, 
dare  lothe  it,  though  they  dare  not  censure  it.  So  while 
the  knee  bendeth,  the  mind  abhorreth ;  and  telleth  the 
body  it  honors  an  unworthy  subject — within  itself  se¬ 
cretly  comparing  that  vicious  great  man,  on  whom  his 
submiss  courtesy  is  cast  away,  to  some  goodly  fair-bound 
Seneca’s  tragedies,  that  is  curiously  gilded  without, 
which  if  a  man  open,  he  shall  find  Thyestes  the  tomb 
of  his  own  children,  or  CEdipus  the  husband  of  his  own 
mother,  or  some  such  monstrous  part,  which  he  at  once 
reads  and  hates. 


284 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


SECTION  XX. 

The  second  remedy  of  over-joyed  prosperity. 

Let  him  think  that  not  only  these  outward  things  are 
not  in  themselves  good,  but  that  they  expose  their  own¬ 
ers  to  misery.  F or  besides  that  God  usually  punishes 
our  over-loving  them,  with  their  loss — because  he  thinks 
them  unworthy  rivals  to  himself,  who  cliallengeth  all 
height  of  love  as  his  only  right ;  so  that  the  way  to  lose 
is  to  love  much — the  largeness  moreover  either  of  affec¬ 
tion  or  estate  makes  an  open  way  to  ruin.  While  a  man 
walks  on  plain  ground,  he  falls  not ;  or  if  he  fall,  he  doth 
but  measure  his  length  on  the  ground,  and  rise  again 
without  harm ;  but  he  that  climbeth  high,  is  in  danger 
of  falling,  and  if  he  fall,  of  killing.  All  the  sails  hoisted, 
give  vantage  to  a  tempest ;  which,  through  the  mariners’ 
foresight  giving  timely  room  thereto,  by  their  fall  deliver 
the  vessel  from  the  danger  of  that  gust  whose  rage  now 
passeth  over  with  only  beating  her  with  waves  for  anger 
that  he  was  prevented.  So  the  larger  our  estate  is,  the 
fairer  mark  hath  mischief  given  to  hit ;  and,  which  is 
worse,  that  which  makes  us  so  easy  to  hit,  makes  our 
wound  more  deep  and  grievous.  If  poor  Codrus  his 
house  burn,  he  stands  by  and  warms  him  with  the  flame 
because  he  knows  it  is  but  the  loss  of  an  outside,  which, 
by  gathering  some  few  sticks,  straw,  and  clay,  may  with 
little  labor  and  no  cost,  be  repaired.  But  when  the  ma¬ 
ny  lofts  of  the  rich  man  do  one  give  fire  to  another,  he 
cries  out  one  while  of  his  counting-house,  another  while 
of  his  wardrobe,  then  of  some  noted  chest,  and  straight 


SECTION  XXI. 


285 


of  some  rich  cabinet :  and  lamenting  both  the  frame  and 
the  furniture,  is  therefore  impatient,  because  he  had 
something. 


SECTION  XXL 

The  vanity  of  pleasure — tiie  third  enemy  on  the  right 

H  AND. 

But.  if  there  be  any  sorceress  upon  earth,  it  is  Pleas¬ 
ure  ;  which  so  enchanteth  the  minds  of  men,  and  work- 
eth  the  disturbance  of  our  peace  with  such  secret  delight, 
that  foolish  men  think  tins  want  of  tranquillity,  happi¬ 
ness.  She  turneth  men  into  swine  with  such  sweet 
charms  that  they  would  not  change  their  brutish  nature 
for  their  former  reason.  It  is  a  good  unquietness,  say 
they,  that  contenteth  ;  it  is  a  good  enemy  that  profiteth. 
Is  it  any  wonder  that  men  should  be  sottish,  when  their 
reason  is  mastered  with  sensuality?  Thou  fool!  thy 
pleasure  contents  thee — how  much,  how  long?  If  she 
have  not  more  befriended  thee  than  ever  she  did  any 
earthly  favorite,  yea,  if  she  have  not  given  thee  more 
than  she  hath  herself,  thy  best  delight  hath  had  some 
mixture  of  discontentment.  For  either  some  circum¬ 
stance  crosseth  thy  desire,  or  the  inward  distaste  of  thy 
conscience,  checking  thine  appetite,  permits  thee  not  any 
entire  fruition  of  thy  joy.  Even  the  sweetest  of  all  flow¬ 
ers  hath  his  thorns;  and  who  can  determine  whether 
the  scent  be  more  delectable,  or  the  pricks  more  irksome  ? 
It  is  enough  for  heaven  to  have  absolute  pleasures  ; 
which  if  they  could  be  found  here  below,  certainly  that 


286  HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 

heaven  which  is  now  not  enough  desired,  would  then  be 
feared.  God  will  have  our  pleasures  here,  according  to 
the  fashion  of  ourselves,  compounded ;  so  as  the  best 
delights  may  still  savor  of  their  earth.  See  how  that 
great  king,  which  never  had  any  match  for  wisdom, 
scarce  ever  any  superior  for  wealth,  traversed  over  all 
this  inferior  world  with  diligent  inquiry  and  observation  ; 
and  all  to  find  out  that  goodness  of  the  children  of  men 
which  they  enjoy  under  the  sun ;  abridging  himself  of 
nothing  that  either  his  eyes  or  his  heart  could  suggest  to 
him — as  what  is  it,  that  he  could  not  either  know  or 
purchase  ? — And  now  coming  home  to  himself,  after  the 
disquisition  of  all  natural  and  human  things,  complains 
that,  Behold,  all  is  not  only  vanity  but  vexation  !  Go 
then,  thou  wise  scholar  of  experience,  and  make  a  more 
accurate  search  for  that  which  he  sought  and  missed. 
Perhaps  somewhere,  betwixt  the  tallest  cedar  in  Leba¬ 
non  and  shrubby  hyssop  upon  the  wall,  pleasure  shrouded 
herself  that  she  could  not  be  descried  of  him — whether 
through  ignorance  or  negligence.  Thine  insight  may 
be  more  piercing,  thy  means  more  commodious,  thy 
success  happier.  If  it  were  possible  for  any  man  to  en¬ 
tertain  such  hopes,  his  vain  experience  could  not  make 
him  a  greater  fool :  it  could  but  teach  him  what  he  is, 
and  knoweth  not.  And  yet,  so  imperfect  as  our  pleas¬ 
ures  are,  they  have  their  satiety ;  and  as  their  continu¬ 
ance  is  not  good,  so  tlieir  conclusion  is  worse  : — look  to 
the  end,  and  see  how  sudden,  how  bitter  it  is.  Their 
only  courtesy  is,  to  salute  us  with  a  farewell,  and  such 
a  one  as  makes  their  salutation  uncomfortable.  This 
Delilah  shows  and  speaks  fair :  but  in  the  end,  she  will 
bereave  thee  of  thy  strength,  of  thy  sight,  yea,  of  thyself. 


287 


SECTION  XXII. 

These  gnats  fly  about  thine  ears  and  make  thee  music 
awhile ;  but  evermore  they  sting  ere  they  part.  Sor¬ 
row  and  repentance  is  the  best  end  of  pleasure ;  pain  is 
yet  worse,  but  the  worst  is  despair.  If  thou  miss  of  the 
first  of  these,  one  of  the  latter  shall  find  thee — perhaps 
both.  How  much  better  is  it  for  thee  to  want  a  little 
honey,  than  to  be  swollen  up  with  a  venomous  sting ! 

Thus,  then,  the  mind  resolved  that  these  earthly 
things — Honor,  Wealth,  Pleasures — are  casual,  unsta¬ 
ble,  deceitful,  imperfect,  dangerous,  must  learn  to  use 
them  without  trust,  and  to  want  them  without  grief; 
thinking  still,  if  I  have  them,  I  have  some  benefit,  with  a 
great  charge  :  if  I  have  them  not,  with  little  respect  of 
others,  I  have  much  security  and  ease  in  myself:  which 
once  obtained,  we  cannot  fare  amiss  in  either  estate ; 
and  without  which,  we  cannot  but  miscarry  in  both. 


SECTION  XXII. 

Positive  rules  of  our  peace. 

All  the  enemies  of  our  inward  peace  are  thus  descried 
and  discomfited.  Which  done,  we  have  enough  to  pre¬ 
serve  us  from  misery  ;  but — since  we  moreover  seek  how 
to  live  well  and  happily — there  yet  remain  those  posi¬ 
tive  rules  whereby  our  tranquillity  may  be  both  had,  con¬ 
tinued,  and  confirmed.  Wherein  I  fear  not  lest  I  should 
seem  over-divine,  in  casting  the  anchor  of  quietness  so 
deep  as  heaven,  the  only  seat  of  constancy,  whiles  it  can 
find  no  hold  at  all  upon  earth.  All  earthly  things  are 
full  of  variableness ;  and  therefore,  having  no  stay  in 


288 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


themselves,  can  give  none  to  us.  He  that  will  have  and 
hold  right,  tranquillity,  must  find  in  himself  a  sweet  frui¬ 
tion  of  God,  and  a  feeling  apprehension  of  his  presence  ; 
that  when  he  finds  manifold  occasions  of  vexation  in 
these  earthly  things,  he,  overlooking  them  all  and  hav¬ 
ing  recourse  to  his  Comforter,  may  find  in  him  such 
matter  of  contentment,  that  he  may  pass  over  all  these 
petty  grievances  with  contempt;  which  whosoever 
wants,  may  be  secure,  cannot  be  quiet.  The  mind  of 
man  cannot  want  some  refuge,  and — as  we  say  of  the 
elephant — cannot  rest,  unless  it  have  something  to  lean 
upon.  The  covetous  man,  whose  heaven  is  his  chest, 
when  he  hears  himself  rated  and  cursed  for  oppression, 
comes  home,  and  seeing  his  bags  safe,  applauds  him¬ 
self  against  all  censurers.  The  glutton,  when  he  loseth 
friends  or  good  name,  yet  joyeth  in  his  well-furnished 
table  and  the  laughter  of  his  wine — more  pleasing  him¬ 
self  in  one  dish,  than  he  can  be  grieved  with  all  the 
world’s  miscarriage.  The  needy  scholar,  whose  wealth 
lies  all  in  his  brain,  cheers  himself  against  iniquity  of 
times,  with  the  conceit  of  his  knowledge.  These  start¬ 
ing-holes  the  mind  cannot  want  when  it  is  hard  driven. 
Now  when,  as  like  to  some  chased  Sisera,  it  shrouds  it¬ 
self  under  the  harbor  of  these  Jaels,  although  they  give 
it  house-room  and  milk  for  a  time,  yet  at  last  either  they 
entertain  it  with  a  nail  in  the  temples,  or — being  guilty 
to  their  own  impotency — send  it  out  of  themselves  for 
safety  and  peace.  For  if  the  cross  light  in  that  which 
it  made  his  refuge — as,  if  the  covetous  man  be  crossed  in 
his  riches — what  earthly  thing  can  stay  him  from  a  des¬ 
perate  phrensy  ?  Or  if  the  cross  fall  in  a  degree  above 
the  height  of  his  stay — as  if  the  rich  man  be  sick  or  dy- 


SECTION  X  XII  . 


289 


ing :  wherein  all  wealth  is  either  contemned,  or  remem¬ 
bered  with  anguish— how  do  all  his  comforts,  like  ver¬ 
min  from  an  house  on  fire,  run  away  from  him  and 
leave  him  over  to  his  ruin  ! — whiles  the  soul  that  hath 
placed  his  refuge  above  is  sure  that  the  ground  of  his  com¬ 
fort  cannot  be  matched  with  an  earthly  sorrow,  cannot 
be  made  vairable  by  the  change  of  any  event,  but  is  infi¬ 
nitely  above  all  casualties,  and  without  all  uncertainties. 
What  state  is  there,  wherein  thifc  heavenly  stay  shall  not 
afford  me  not  only  peace,  but  joy  ?  Am  I  in  prison,  or 
in  the  hell  of  prisons,  in  some  dark,  low,  and  desolate 
dungeon  ?  Lo,  there  Algerius,1  that  sweet  martyr,  finds 
more  light  than  above,  and  pities  the  darkness  of  our 
liberty !  We  have  but  a  sun  to  enlighten  our  world, 
which  every  cloud  dimmeth  and  hideth  from  our  eyes  : 
but  the  ‘Father  of  lights’ — in  respect  of  whom  all  the 
bright  stars  of  heaven  are  but  as  the  snuff  of  a  dim  can¬ 
dle — shines  into  his  pit,  and  the  presence  of  his  glorious 
angels  makes  that  an  heaven  to  him,  which  the  world 
purposed  as  an  hell  of  discomfort.  What  walls  can  keep 
out  that  infinite  Spirit  that  fills  all  things  ?  What  dark¬ 
ness  can  be  where  the  God  of  this  sun  dwelleth  ?2 
What  sorrow,  where  he  comforteth  ?  Am  I  wandering 
in  banishment  ? — can  I  go  whither  God  is  not  ?  What 
sea  can  divide  betwixt  him  and  me  ?  Then  would  I  fear 
exile,  if  I  could  be  driven  away  as  well  from  God  as  my 
country.  Now  he  is  as  much  in  all  earths,  his  title  is 
alike  to  all  places,  and  mine  in  him :  his  sun  shines  to 
me,  his  sea  or  earth  bears  me  up,  his  presence  cheereth 
me,  whithersoever  I  go.  He  cannot  be  said  to  flit,  that 


1  Pompon.  Alger. 

19 


2  Fox,  Martyr. 


290 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


never  changeth  his  host.  He  alone  is  a  thousand  com¬ 
panions  ;  he  alone  is  a  world  of  friends.  That  man 
never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  familiar  with  God,  that 
complains  of  the  want  of  home,  of  friends,  of  compan¬ 
ions,  while  God  is  with  him.  Am  I  contemned  of  the 
world  ?  It  is  enough  for  me  that  I  am  honored  of  God 
— of  both,  I  cannot.  The  world  would  love  me  more, 
if  I  were  less  friends  with  God.  It  cannot  hate  me  so 
much  as  God  hates  it.  'What  care  I  to  be  hated  of  them 
whom  God  hateth  ?  He  is  unworthy  of  God’s  favor, 
that  cannot  think  it  happiness  enough  without  the  world’s. 
How  easy  is  it  for  such  a  man,  whiles  the  world  dis¬ 
graces  him,  at  once  to  scorn  and  pity  it  that  it  cannot 
think  nothing  more  contemptible  than  itself.  I  am  im¬ 
poverished  with  losses. — That  was  never  thoroughly 
good,  that  may  be  lost.  My  riches  will  not  leese  me — 
yea,  though  I  forego  all,  to  my  skin,  yet  have  I  not  lost 
any  part  of  my  wealth.  For  if  he  be  rich  that  hath 
something,  how  rich  is  he  that  hath  the  Maker  and  Own¬ 
er  of  all  things  !  I  am  weak  and  diseased  in  body. — 
He  cannot  miscarry,  that  hath  his  Maker  for  his  phy¬ 
sician.  Yet  my  soul,  the  better  part,  is  sound ;  for  that 
cannot  be  weak,  whose  strength  God  is.  How  many  are 
sick  in  that,  and  complain  not !  I  can  be  content  to  be 
let  blood  in  the  arm  or  foot,  for  the  curing  of  the  head 
or  heart.  The  health  of  the  principal  part  is  more  joy 
to  me  than  it  is  trouble  to  be  distempered  in  the  inferior. 
Let  me  know  that  God  favors  me  :  then  I  have  liberty 
in  prison,  home  in  banishment,  honor  in  contempt,  in 
losses  wealth,  health  in  infirmity,  life  in  death,  and  in  all 
these — happiness.  And  surely  if  our  perfect  fruition  of 
God  be  our  complete  heaven,  it  must  needs  be  that  our 


SEC  TION  XXII  . 


291 


inchoate  conversing  with  him  is  onr  heaven  imperfectly, 
and  the  entrance  into  the  other ;  which,  methinks,  dif¬ 
fers  from  this,  not  in  the  kind  of  it,  but  in  the  degree. 
For  the  continuation  of  which  happy  society — sith 
strangeness  loseth  acquaintance  and  breedeth  neglect — 
on  our  part  must  be  a  daily  renewing  of  heavenly  famili¬ 
arity  by  seeking  him  up,  even  with  the  contempt  of  all 
inferior  distraction  ;  by  talking  with  him  in  our  secret 
invocations  ;  by  hearing  his  conference  with  us  ;  and  by 
mutual  entertainment  of  each  other,  in  the  sweet  dis¬ 
courses  of  our  daily  meditations.  He  is  a  sullen  and 
unsociable  friend,  that  wants  words.  God  shall  take  no 
pleasure  in  us,  if  we  be  silent.  The  heart  that  is  full  of 
love,  cannot  but  have  a  busy  tongue.  All  our  talk  with 
God  is  either  suits  or  thanks.  In  them,  the  Christian 
heart  pours  out  itself  to  his  Maker ;  and  would  not 
change  this  privilege  for  a  world.  All  his  annoyances, 
all  his  wants,  all  his  dislikes,  are  poured  into  the  bosom 
of  his  invisible  friend,  who  likes  us  still  so  much  more 
as  we  ask  more,  as  we  complain  more.  O  the  easy  and 
happy  recourse  that  the  poor  soul  hath  to  the  high  throne 
of  heaven  !  We  stay  not  for  the  holding  out  of  a  golden 
sceptre  to  warn  our  admission ;  before  which  our  pres¬ 
ence  should  be  presumption  and  death.  No  hour  is  un¬ 
seasonable,  no  person  too  base,  no  words  too  homely,  no 
fact  too  hard,  no  importunity  too  great.  We  speak  fa¬ 
miliarly  ;  we  are  heard,  answered,  comforted.  Another 
while,  God  interchangeably  speaks  unto  us,  by  the  secret 
voice  of  his  Spirit,  or  by  the  audible  sound  of  his  word ; 
we  hear,  adore,  answer  him ;  by  both  which,  the  mind 
so  communicates  itself  to  God,  and  hath  God  so  plenti¬ 
fully  communicated  unto  it,  that  hereby  it  grows  to  such 


292 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


an  habit  of  heavenliness,  as  that  now  it  wants  nothing, 
but  dissolution,  of  full  glory. 


SECTION  XXIII. 

The  subordinate  rules  of  tranquillity  : — first,  for  ac¬ 
tions. 

Out  of  this  main  ground  once  settled  in  the  heart,  like 
as  so  many  rivers  from  one  common  sea,  flow  those  sub¬ 
ordinate  resolutions  which  we  require  as  necessary  to 
our  peace — whether  in  respect  of  our  actions  or  our  es¬ 
tate.  For  our  actions,  there  must  be  a  secret  vow  pass¬ 
ed  in  the  soul,  both  of  constant  refraining  from  whatso¬ 
ever  may  offend  that  Majesty  we  rest  upon  ;  and,  above 
this,  of  true  and  canonical  obedience  to  God,  without  all 
care  of  difficulty,  and  in  spite  of  all  contradictions  of  na¬ 
ture.  Not  out  of  the  confidence  of  our  own  power — im¬ 
potent  men,  who  are  we  that  we  should  either  vow  or 
perform  ! — but,  as  he  said,  Give  what  thou  bidst,  and 
bid  what  thou  wilt.  Hence  the  courage  of  Moses  durst 
venture  his  hand  to  take  up  the  crawling  and  hissing 
serpent.  Hence  Peter  durst  walk  upon  the  pavement  of 
the  waves.  Hence  that  heroical  spirit  of  Luther — a 
man  made  of  metal  fit  for  so  great  a  work — durst  re¬ 
solve  and  profess  to  enter  into  that  forewarned  city, 
though  there  had  been  as  many  devils  in  their  streets  as 
tiles  on  their  houses.  Both  these  vows  as  we  once  sol¬ 
emnly  made  by  others,  so,  for  our  peace,  we  must  renew 
in  ourselves.  Thus  the  experienced  mind  both  know¬ 
ing  that  it  hath  met  with  a  good  friend,  and,  withal,  what 


SECTION  XXIII. 


293 


the  price  of  a  friend  is,  cannot  but  be  careful  to  retain 
him,  and  wary  of  displeasing ;  and  therefore  to  cut  off  all 
dangers  of  variance,  voluntarily  takes  a  double  oath  of 
allegiance  of  itself  to  God ;  which  neither  benefit  shall 
induce  us  to  break,  if  we  might  gain  a  world,  nor  fear 
urge  us  thereto,  though  we  must  lose  ourselves.  The 
wavering  heart,  that  finds  continual  combats  in  itself  be¬ 
twixt  pleasure  and  conscience,  so  equally  matched  that 
neither  gets  the  day,  is  not  yet  capable  of  peace,  and 
whether  ever  overcometh,  is  troubled  both  with  resist¬ 
ance  and  victory.  Barren  Rebecca  found  more  ease  than 
when  her  twins  struggled  in  her  womb.  If  Jacob  had  been 
there  alone,  she  had  not  complained  of  that  painful  con¬ 
tention.  One  while,  pleasure  holds  the  fort,  and  con¬ 
science  assaults  it ;  which  when  it  hath  entered  at  last 
by  strong  hand,  after  many  batteries  of  judgments  de¬ 
nounced,  ere  long  pleasure  either  corrupts  the  watch,  or 
by  some  cunning  stratagem  finds  way  to  recover  her 
first  hold.  So  one  part  is  ever  attemping  and  ever  re¬ 
sisting.  Betwixt  both,  the  heart  cannot  have  peace,  be¬ 
cause  it  resolves  not :  for  while  the  soul  is  held  in  sus¬ 
pense,  it  cannot  enjoy  the  pleasure  it  useth,  because  it  is 
half  taken  up  with  fear.  Only  a  strong  and  resolute  re¬ 
pulse  of  pleasure  is  truly  pleasant ;  for  therein  the  con¬ 
science,  filling  us  with  heavenly  delight,  maketh  sweet 
triumphs  in  itself,  as  being  now  the  lord  of  his  own  do¬ 
minions,  and  knowing  what  to  trust  to.  No  man  knows 
the  pleasure  of  this  thought — I  have  done  well — but  he 
that  hath  felt  it ;  and  he  that  hath  felt  it,  contemns  all 
pleasure  to  it.  It  is  a  false  slander  raised  on  Christiani¬ 
ty,  that  it  maketh  men  dumpish  and  melancholic :  for 
therefore  are  we  heavy,  because  we  are  not  enough 


\ 


294 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


Christians.  We  have  religion  enough  to  mislike  plea¬ 
sures,  not  enough  to  overcome  them.  But  if  we  be 
once  conquerors  over  ourselves  and  have  devoted  our¬ 
selves  wholly  to  God,  there  can  be  nothing  but  heaven¬ 
ly  mirth  in  the  soul.  Lo  here,  ye  philosophers,  the  true 
music  of  heaven,  which  the  good  heart  continually  hear- 
eth,  and  answers  it  in  the  just  measures  of  joy  !  Oth¬ 
ers  may  talk  of  mirth,  as  a  thing  they  have  heard  of,  or 
vainly  fancied :  only  the  Christian  feels  it,  and  in  com¬ 
parison  thereof,  scorneth  the  idle,  ribaldish,  and  scurri¬ 
lous  mirth  of  the  profane. 


SECTION  XXIV. 

The  second  rude  for  our  actions. 

And  this  resolution  which  we  call  for,  must  not  only 
exclude  manifestly  evil  actions,  but  also  doubting  and 
suspension  of  mind  in  actions  suspected  and  questiona¬ 
ble  ;  wherein  the  judgment  must  ever  give  confident  de¬ 
termination  one  way.  For  this  tranquillity  consisteth  in 
a  steadiness  of  the  mind ;  and  how  can  that  vessel  which 
is  beaten  upon  by  contrary  waves  and  winds,  and  totter- 
eth  to  either  part,  be  said  to  keep  a  steady  course  ?  Re¬ 
solution  is  the  only  mother  of  security.  For  instance, 
I  see  that  usury,  which  was  wont  to  be  condemned  for 
no  better  than  a  legal  theft,  hath  now  obtained  with  ma¬ 
ny  the  reputation  of  an  honest  trade ;  and  is  both  used 
by  many,  and  by  some  defended.  It  is  pity  that  a  bad 
practice  should  find  any  learned  or  religious  patron.  The 
sum  of  my  patrimony  lieth  dead  by  me,  sealed  up  in  the 


SECTION  XXIV. 


295 


bag  of  my  father :  my  thriftier  friends  advise  me  to  this 
easy  and  sure  improvement.  Their  counsel  and  my 
gain  prevail.  My  yearly  sums  come  in,  with  no  cost 
but  of  time,  wax,  parchment :  my  estate  likes  it  well — 
better  than  my  conscience ;  which  tells  me  still  he  doubts 
my  trade  is  too  easy  to  be  honest.  Yet  I  continue  my 
illiberal  course,  not  without  some  scruple  and  contradic¬ 
tion  ;  so  as  my  fear  of  offence  hinders  the  joy  of  my  pro¬ 
fit,  and  the  pleasure  of  my  gain  heartens  me  against  the 
fear  of  injustice. — I  would  be  rich  with  ease,  and  yet  I 
would  not  be  uncharitable,  I  would  not  be  unjust.  All 
the  while,  I  live  in  unquiet  doubts  and  distraction  :  oth¬ 
ers  are  not  so  much  entangled  in  my  bonds,  as  I  in  my 
own.  At  last,  that  I  may  be  both  just  and  quiet,  I  con¬ 
clude  to  refer  this  case  wholly  to  the  sentence  of  my  in¬ 
ward  judge,  the  conscience  :  the  advocates,  gain  and  jus¬ 
tice,  plead  on  either  part  at  this  bar,  with  doubtful  suc¬ 
cess.  Gain  informs  the  judge  of  a  new  and  nice  dis¬ 
tinction,  of  toothless  and  biting  interest,  and  brings  pre¬ 
cedents  of  particular  cases  of  usury  so  far  from  any 
breach  of  charity  or  justice,  that  both  parts  therein  con¬ 
fess  themselves  advantaged.  Justice  pleads  ever  the 
most  toothless  usury  to  have  sharp  gums,  and  finds  in 
the  most  harmless  and  profitable  practice  of  it,  an  insen¬ 
sible  wrong  to  the  common  body,  besides  the  infinite 
wrecks  of  private  estates.  The  weak  judge  suspends  in 
such  probable  allegations,  and  demurreth,  as  being  over¬ 
come  of  both  and  of  neither  part ;  and  leaves  me  yet  no 
whit  more  quiet,  no  whit  less  uncertain.  I  suspend  my 
practice  accordingly ;  being  sure  it  is  good  not  to  do 
what  I  am  not  sure  is  good  to  be  done  :  and  now  gain 
solicits  me  as  much  as  justice  did  before.  Betwixt  both, 


296 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


I  live  troublesomely  :  nor  ever  shall  do  other,  till  in  a 
resolute  detestation,  I  have  whipped  this  evil  merchant 
out  of  the  temple  of  my  heart.  This  rigor  is  my  peace. 
Before,  I  could  not  be  well,  either  full  or  fasting.  Un¬ 
certainty  is  much  pain,  even  in  a  more  tolerable  action. 
Neither  is  it,  I  think,  easy  to  determine  whether  it  be 
worse  to  do  a  lawful  act  with  doubting,  or  an  evil  with 
resolution  :  since  that  which  in  itself  is  good,  is  made 
evil  to  me,  by  my  doubt;  and  what  is  in  nature  evil,  is 
in  this  one  point  not  evil  to  me,  that  I  do  it  upon  a  ver¬ 
dict  of  a  conscience.  So  now  my  judgment  offends  in 
not  following  the  truth  ;  I  offend  not  in  that  I  follow  my 
judgment :  wherein  if  the  most  wise  God  had  left  us  to 
rove  only  according  to  the  aim  of  our  own  conjectures,  it 
should  have  been  less  faulty  to  be  skeptics  in  our  actions, 
and  either  not  to  judge  at  all  or  to  judge  amiss.  But 
now  that  he  hath  given  us  a  perfect  rule  of  eternal  equi¬ 
ty  and  truth,  Avhereby  to  direct  the  sentences  of  our 
judgment,  that  uncertainty  which  alloweth  no  peace  to 
us,  will  afford  us  no  excuse  before  the  tribunal  of  hea¬ 
ven  :  wherefore  then  only  is  the  heart  quiet,  when  our 
actions  are  grounded  upon  judgment ;  and  our  judgment 
upon  truth. 


SECTION  XXV. 

Rules  for  estate. — First,  reliance  on  the  providence 

of  God. 

For  his  estate,  the  quiet  mind  must  first  roll  itself  upon 
the  providence  of  the  Highest.  For  whosoever  so  casts 


SECTION  XX  Y  . 


297 


himself  upon  these  outward  things,  that  in  their  prosper¬ 
ous  estate  he  rejoiceth,  and,  contrarily,  is  cast  down  in 
their  miscarriage,  I  know  not  whether  he  shall  find  more 
uncertainty  of  rest  or  more  certainty  of  unquietness ; 
since  he  must  needs  be  like  a  light  unbalanced  vessel, 
that  rises  and  falls  with  every  wave,  and  depends  only 
on  the  mercy  of  wind  and  water.  But  who  relies  on  the 
inevitable  decree  and  all-seeing  providence  of  God — 
which  can  neither  be  crossed  with  second  thoughts,  nor 
with  events  unlooked  for — lays  a  sure  ground  of  tran¬ 
quillity.  Let  the  world  toss  how  it  list,  and  vary  itself, 
as  it  ever  doth,  in  storms  and  calms  ;  his  rest  is  pitched 
aloft,  above  the  sphere  of  changeable  mortality.  To  be¬ 
gin,  is  harder  than  to  prosecute.  What  counsel  had 
God  in  the  first  molding  of  thee  in  the  womb  of  thy  mo¬ 
ther?  What  aid  shall  he  have  in  repairing  thee  from 
the  womb  of  the  earth  ?  And  if  he  could  make  and  shall 
restore  thee,  without  thee,  why  shall  he  not  much  more, 
without  thy  endeavor,  dispose  of  thee  ?  Is  God  wise 
enough  to  guide  the  heavens,  and  to  produce  all  crea¬ 
tures  in  their  kinds  and  seasons,  and  shall  he  not  be  able 
to  order  thee  alone  ?  Thou  sayest,  I  have  friends,  and 
— which  is  my  best  friend — I  have  wealth  to  make  both 
them  and  me,  and  wit  to  put  both  to  best  use.  0  the 
broken  reeds  of  human  confidence  !  Who  ever  trusted  on 
friends  that  could  trust  to  himself?  Who  ever  was  so 
wise,  as  not  sometimes  to  be  a  fool  in  his  own  conceit — 
ofttimes  in  the  conceit  of  others  ?  Who  was  ever  more 
discontent  than  the  wealthy?  Friends  maybe  false; 
wealth  cannot  but  be  deceitful;  wit  hath  made  many 
fools.  Trust  thou  to  that,  which  if  thou  wouldst,  can¬ 
not  fail  thee.  Not  that  thou  desirest,  shall  come  to  pass  ; 


298 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


but  that  which  God  hath  decreed.  Neither  thy  fears, 
nor  thy  hopes,  nor  vows,  shall  either  foreslow  or  alter  it. 
The  unexperienced  passenger,  when  he  sees  the  vessel 
go  amiss  or  too  far,  lays  fast  hold  on  the  contrary  part 
or  on  the  mast,  for  remedy.  The  pilot  laughs  at  his  fol¬ 
ly  ;  knowing  that,  whatever  he  labors,  the  bark  will  go 
which  way  the  wind  and  his  stern  directeth  it.  Thy  goods 
are  embarked  :  now  thou  wishest  a  direct  north  wind  to 
drive  thee  to  the  straits,  and  then  a  west,  to  run  in  ;  and 
now,  when  thou  hast  emptied  and  laded  again,  thou  call- 
est  as  earnestly  for  the  south  and  south-east,  to  return, 
and  lowerest  if  all  these  answer  thee  not :  as  if  heaven 
and  earth  had  nothing  else  to  do,  but  to-  wait  upon  thy 
pleasure,  and  served  only  to  be  commanded  service  by 
thee.  Another,  that  hath  contrary  occasion,  asks  for 
winds  quite  opposite  to  thine.  He  that  sits  in  heaven, 
neither  fits  thy  fancy  nor  his  ;  but  bids  his  winds  spet 
sometimes  in  thy  face,  sometimes  to  favor  thee  with  a 
side-blast,  sometimes  to  be  boisterous,  other-whiles  to  be 
silent, — at  His  own  pleasure.  Whether  the  mariner 
sing  or  curse,  it  shall  go  whither  it  is  sent.  Strive,  or 
lie  still,  thy  destiny  shall  run  on ;  and  what  must  be 
shall  be.  Not  that  we  should  hence  exclude  benefit  of 
means — which  are  always  necessarily  included  in  this 
wise  pre-ordination  of  all  things — but  perplexity  of 
cares,  and  wrestling  with  Providence.  0,  the  idle  and 
ill-spent  cares  of  curious  men,  that  consult  with  stars, 
and  spirits  for  their  destinies,  under  color  of  prevention  ! 
If  it  be  not  thy  destiny,  why  wouldst  thou  know  it ; 
what  needst  thou  resist  it  ?  If  it  be  thy  destiny,  why 
wouldst  thou  know  that  thou  canst  not  prevent  ?  That 
which  God  hath  decreed,  is  already  done  in  heaven,  and 


/ 


SECTION  XXVI.  299 

must  be  done  on  earth.  This  kind  of  expectation  doth 
but  hasten  slow  evils,  and  prolong  them  in  their  continu¬ 
ance — hasten  them,  not  in  their  event,  but  in  our  con¬ 
ceit.  Shortly,  then,  if  thou  swimmest  against  the  stream 
of  this  providence^  thou  canst  not  escape  drowning ;  ev¬ 
ery  wave  turns  thee  over,  like  a  porpoise  before  a  tem¬ 
pest  :  but  if  thou  swimmest  with  the  stream,  do  but  cast 
thine  arms  abroad,  thou  passest  with  safety  and  with 
ease.  It  both  bears  thee  up,  and  carries  thee  on  to  the 
haven,  whither  God  hath  determined  thine  arrival,  in 
peace. 


SECTION  XXVI. 

The  second  rule  for  estate. — A  persuasion  of  the 

GOODNESS  AND  FITNESS  OF  IT  FOR  US. 

Next  to  this,  the  mind  of  the  unquiet  man  must  be  so 
wrought  by  these  former  resolutions,  that  it  be  thorough¬ 
ly  persuaded  the  estate  wherein  he  is,  is  best  of  all ;  if 
not  in  itself,  yet  to  him — not  out  of  pride,  but  out  of 
contentment — which  whosoever  wanteth  cannot  but  be 
continually  vexed  with  envy,  and  racked  with  ambition ; 
yea,  if  it  were  possible  to  be  in  heaven  without  this,  he 
could  not  be  happy ;  for  it  is  as  impossible  for  the  mind 
at  once  to  long  after  and  enjoy,  as  for  a  man  to  feed  and 
sleep  at  once.  And  this  is  the  more  to  be  striven  for, 
because  we  are  all  naturally  prone  to  afflict  ourselves 
with  our  own  frowardness  ;  ingratefully  contemning  all 
we  have,  for  what  we  would  have.  Even  the  best  of 
the  patriarchs  could  say,  ‘  O  Lord,  what  wilt  thou  give 
me,  since  I  go  childless  ?’  The  bondman  desires  now 


300 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


nothing  but  liberty — that  alone  would  make  him  hap¬ 
py.  Once  free,  forgetting  his  former  thought,  he  wishes 
some  wealth  to  make  use  of  his  freedom  ;  and  says,  It 
were  as  good  to  be  straitened  in  place  as  in  ability. 
Once  rich,  he  longeth  after  nobility,  thinking  it  no  praise 
to  be  a  wealthy  peasant.  Once  noble,  he  begins  to  deem 
it  a  base  matter  to  be  subject :  nothing  can  now  con¬ 
tent  him,  but  a  crown.  Then  it  is  a  small  matter  to 
rule,  so  long  as  he  hath  but  little  dominions,  and  greater 
neighbors.  He  would  therefore  be  an  universal  mon¬ 
arch.  Whither  then  ?  Surely,  it  vexeth  him  as  much 
that  the  earth  is  so  small  a  globe,  so  little  a  mole-liill, 
and  that  there  are  no  more  worlds  to  conquer.  And 
now  that  he  hath  attained  the  highest  dignity  amongst 
men,  he  would  needs  be  a  god ;  conceits  his  immortali¬ 
ty,  erects  temples  to  his  own  name,  commands  his  dead 
statues  to  be  adored,  and,  not  thus  contented,  is  angry 
that  he  cannot  command  heaven  and  control  nature.  O 
vain  fools,  whither  doth  our  restless  ambition  climb? 
What  shall  at  length  be  the  period  of  our  wishes?  I 
could  not  blame  these  desires,  if  contentment  consisted 
in  having  much  ;  but  now  that  he  only  hath  much  that 
hath  contentment,  and  that  it  is  as  easily  obtained  in  a 
low  estate,  I  can  account  of  these  thoughts  no  better 
than  proudly  foolish.  Thou  art  poor  :  what  difference 
is  there  betwixt  a  greater  man  and  thee,  save  that  he 
doth  his  businesses  by  others,  thou  doest  them  thyself ! 
He  hath  caters,  cooks,  bailiffs,  stewards,  secretaries,  and' 
all  other  officers  for  his  several  services  :  thou  providest, 
dressest,  gatherest,  receivest,  expendest,  writest,  for  thy¬ 
self.  His  patrimony  is  large  ;  thine  earnings  small.  If 
Triareus  feed  fifty  bellies  with  his  hundred  hands,  what 


SECTION  XX  Y  I. 


301 


is  he  the  better  than  he  that  with  two  hands  feedeth 
one?  He  is  served  in  silver;  thou  in  vessel  of  the 
same  color,  of  lesser  price — as  good  for  use,  though  not 
for  value.  His  dishes  are  more  dainty ;  thine,  as  well 
relished  to  thee,  and  no  less  wholesome.  He  eats  ol¬ 
ives  ;  thou,  garlic.  He  mislikes  not  more  the  smell  of 
thy  sauce,  than  thou  dost  the  taste  of  his.  Thou  want- 
est  somewhat  that  he  hath  :  he  wisheth  something  which 
thou  hast,  and  regardest  not.  Thou  couldst  be  content 
to  have  the  rich  man’s  purse,  but  his  gout  thou  wouldst 
not  have :  he  would  have  thy  health,  but  not  thy  fare. 
If  we  might  pick  out  of  all  men’s  estates  that  which  is 
laudable,  omitting  the  inconveniences,  we  would  make 
ourselves  complete  :  but  if  we  must  take  all  together,  we 
should  perhaps  little  advantage  ourselves  with  the  change. 
For  the  most  wise  God  hath  so  proportioned  out  every 
man’s  condition,  that  he  hath  some  just  cause  of  sorrow 
inseparably  mixed  with  other  contentments,  and  hath 
allotted  to  no  man  living,  an  absolute  happiness,  without 
some  grievances  ;  nor  to  any  man  such  an  exquisite  mise¬ 
ry,  as  that  he  findeth  not  somewhat  wherein  to  solace 
himself — the  weight  whereof  varies,  according  to  our  es¬ 
timation  of  them.  One  hath  much  wealth,  and  no  child 
to  inherit  it;  he  envies  at  the  poor  man’s  fruitfulness, 
which  hath  many  heirs  and  no  lands  ;  and  could  be  con¬ 
tent,  with  all  his  abundance,  to  purchase  a  successor  of 
his  own  loins.  Another  hath  many  children,  little  main¬ 
tenance.  He  commendeth  the  careless  quietness  of  the 
barren ;  and  thinks  fewer  mouths  and  more  meat,  would 
do  better.  The  laboring  man  hath  the  blessing  of  a 
strong  body,  fit  to  digest  any  fare,  to  endure  any  labor  : 
yet  he  wisheth  himself  weaker,  on  condition  he  might  be 


302 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


wealthier.  The  man  of  nice  education  hath  a  feeble 
stomach,  and,  rasping  since  his  last  meal,  doubts  whether 
he  should  eat  of  his  best  dish  or  nothing.  This  man  re¬ 
pines  at  nothing  more  than  to  see  his  hungry  ploughman 
feed  on  a  crust ;  and  wisheth  to  change  estates,  on 
condition  that  he  might  change  bodies  with  him.  Say 
that  God  should  give  thee  thy  wish :  what  wouldst 
thou  desire?  Let  me — thou  sayest — be  wise,  healthful, 
rich,  honorable,  strong,  learned,  beautiful,  immortal. 
I  know  thou  lovest  thyself  so  well,  that  thou  canst  wish 
all  these  and  more.  But  say  that  God  hath  so  shared 
out  these  gifts,  by  a  most  wise  and  just  distribution,  that 
thou  canst  have  but  some  of  these,  perhaps  but  one ; 
which  wouldst  thou  single  out  for  thyself  ?  Anything, 
beside  what  thou  hast.  If  learned,  thou  wouldst  be 
strong ;  if  strong,  honorable ;  if  honorable,  long-lived. 
Some  of  these  thou  art  already.  Thou  fool,  cannot  God 
choose  better  for  thee,  than  thou  for  thyself  ?  In  other 
matches,  thou  trustest  the  choice  of  a  skilfuler  chapman. 
When  thou  seest  a  goodly  horse  in  the  fair,  though  his 
shape  please  thine  eye  well,  yet  thou  darest  not  buy  him  if 
a  cunning  horse-master  shall  tell  thee  he  is  faulty ;  and 
art  willing  to  take  a  plainer  and  sounder,  on  his  recom¬ 
mendation,  against  thy  fancy.  How  much  more  should 
we,  in  this  case,  allow  His  choice  that  cannot  deceive  us, 
that  cannot  be  deceived  !  But  thou  knowest  that  other, 
thou  desirest,  to  be  better  than  what  thou  hast ; — better 
perhaps  for  him  that  hath  it ;  not  better  for  thee.  Lib¬ 
erty  is  sweet  and  profitable  to  those  that  can  use  it :  but 
fetters  are  better  for  the  frantic  man.  Wine  is  good  nour¬ 
ishment  for  the  healthful, — poison  to  the  aguish.  It  is 
good  for  a  sound  body  to  sleep  in  a  whole  skin :  but  he 


SECTION  XXVI. 


303 


\ 


that  complains  of  swelling  sores,  cannot  sleep  till  it  be 
broken.  Hemlock  to  the  goat,  and  spiders  to  the  mon¬ 
key,  turn  to  good  sustenance  ;  which  to  other  creatures 
are  accounted  deadly.  As  in  diets,  so  in  estimation  of 
good  and  evil,  of  greater  and  lesser  good,  there  is  much 
variety.  All  palates  commend  not  one  dish  ;  and  what 
one  commends  for  most  delicate,  another  rejects  for  un¬ 
savory  :  and  if  thou  know  what  dish  is  most  pleasant  to 
thee,  thy  physician  knows  best  which  is  wholesome. 
Thou  wouldst  follow  thine  appetite  too  much,  and — as 
the  French  have  in  their  proverb — wouldst  dig  thy  own 
grave  with  thy  teeth :  thy  wise  Physician  oversees  and 
over-rules  thee.  He  sees  if  thou  wert  more  esteemed, 
thou  w^ouldst  be  proud ;  if  more  strong,  licentious ;  if 
richer,  covetous  ;  if  heathfuler,  more  secure  ; — but  thou 
thinkest  not  thus  hardly  of  thyself.  Fond  man,  what 
knowest  thou  future  things  !  Believe  thou  Him  that 
only  knows  what  would  be,  what  will  be.  Thou  wouldest 
willingly  go  to  heaven ;  what  better  guide  canst  thou 
have  than  him  that  dwells  there  ?  If  he  lead  thee 
thorough  deep  sloughs  and  braky  thickets,  know  that  he 
knows  this  the  nearer  way,  though  more  cumbersome. 
Can  there  be  in  him  any  want  of  wisdom,  not  to  foresee 
the  best  ?  Can  there  be  any  wrant  of  power,  not  to  ef¬ 
fect  the  best  ?  Any  w7ant  of  love,  not  to  give  thee  what 
he  know7s  is  best? — How  canst  thou,  then,  fail  of  the 
best,  since  what  his  power  can  do,  and  wdiat  his  wisdom 
sees  should  be  done,  his  love  hath  done,  because  all  are 
infinite.  He  willeth  not  things  because  they  are  good, 
but  they  are  good  because  he  wills  them.  Yea,  if 
aught  had  been  better,  this  had  not  been.  God  willeth 


304 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


what  he  doth  ;  and  if  thy  will  accord  not  with  his,  wheth¬ 
er  wilt  thou  condemn  of  imperfection  ? 


SECTION  XXVII. 

The  conclusion  of  the  whole. 

I  have  chalked  out  the  way  of  Peace  :  what  remain- 
eth,  but  that  we  walk  along  in  it?  I  have  conducted 
my  reader  to  the  mine,  yea,  to  the  mint  of  happiness  ; 
and  showed  him  those  glorious  heaps  which  may  eter¬ 
nally  enrich  him.  If  now  he  shall  go  away  with  his 
hands  and  skirt  empty,  how  is  he  but  worthy  of  a  mis¬ 
erable  want  ?  Who  shall  pity  us,  while  we  have  no 
mercy  on  ourselves  ?  Wilful  distress  hath  neither  rem¬ 
edy  nor  compassion.  And,  to  speak  freely,  I  have  oft 
wondered  at  this  painful  folly  of  us  men,  who  in  the 
open  view  of  our  peace — as  if  we  were  condemned  to  a 
necessary  and  fatal  unquietness — live  upon  our  own 
rack ;  finding  no  more  joy  than  if  we  were  under  no 
other  hands  but  our  executioner’s.  One  droopeth  un¬ 
der  a  feigned  evil ;  another  augments  a  small  sorrow 
through  impatience  ;  another  draws  upon  himself  an  un¬ 
certain  evil  through  fear;  one  seeks  true  contentment, 
but  not  enough  ;  another  hath  just  cause  of  joy,  and 
perceives  it  not.  One  is  vexed  for  that  his  grounds  of 
joy  are  matched  with  equal  grievances  ;  another  cannot 
complain  of  any  present  occasion  of  sorrow,  yet  lives  sul¬ 
lenly  because  he  finds  not  any  present  cause  of  comfort. 
One  is  haunted  with  his  sin  ;  another  distracted  with 
his  passion — amongst  all  which,  he  is  a  miracle  of  all 
men  that  lives  not  some  way  discontented.  So  wre  live 


SECTION  XXVII. 


305 


not  while  we  do  live  ;  only  for  that  we  want  either  wis¬ 
dom  or  will,  to  husband  our  lives  to  our  own  best  advan¬ 
tage.  0  the  inequality  of  our  cares !  Let  riches  or 
honor  be  in  question,  we  sue  to  them,  we  seek  for  them 
with  importunity,  with  servile  ambition  :  our  pains  need 
no  solicitor ;  yea,  there  is  no  way  wrong  that  leads  to 
this  end — we  abhor  the  patience  to  stay  till  they  inquire 
for  us.  And  if  ever — as  it  rarely  happens — our  desert 
and  worthiness  wins  us  the  favor  of  this  proffer,  we 
meet  it  with  both  hands,  not  daring  with  our  modest  de¬ 
nials  to  whet  the  instancy,  and  double  the  entreaties,  of 
so  welcome  suitors.  Yet,  lo  here,  the  only  true  and  pre¬ 
cious  riches,  the  highest  advancement  of  the  soul,  peace 
and  happiness,  seeks  for  us,  sues  to  us  for  acceptation  : 
our  answers  are  coy  and  overly,  such  as  we  give  to  those 
clients  that  look  to  gain  by  our  favors.  If  our  want 
were  through  the  scarcity  of  good,  we  might  yet  hope  for 
pity,  to  ease  us  ;  but  now  that  it  is  through  negligence, 
and  that  we  perish  with  our  hands  in  our  bosom,  we  are 
rather  worthy  of  stripes  for  the  wrong  we  do  ourselves, 
than  of  pity  for  what  we  suffer.  That  we  may  and 
will  not,  in  opportunity  of  hurting  others,  is  noble  and 
Christian  :  but  in  our  own  benefit,  sluggish,  and  savor¬ 
ing  of  the  worst  kind  of  unthriftiness. 

SayeSt  thou,  then,  this  peace  is  good  to  have,  but 
hard  to  get  ?  It  were  a  shameful  neglect,  that  hath  no 
pretence.  Is  difficulty  sufficient  excuse  to  hinder  thee 
from  the  pursuit  of  riches,  of  preferment,  of  learning,  of 
bodily  pleasures  ?  Art  thou  content  to  sit  shrugging  in 
a  base  cottage,  ragged,  famished ;  because  house,  clothes, 
and  food  will  neither  be  had  without  money,  nor  money 
without  labor,  nor  labor  without  trouble  and  painful- 

20 


306 


HEAVEN  UPON  EARTH. 


ness  ?  Who  is  so  merciful,  as  not  to  say  that  a  whip 
is  the  best  alms  for  so  lazy  and  wilful  need  ?  Peace 
should  not  be  good,  if  it  were  not  hard.  Go,  and  by 
this  excuse,  shut  thyself  out  of  heaven  at  thy  death,  and 
live  miserably  till  thy  death,  because  the  good  of  both 
worlds  is  hard  to  compass.  There  is  nothing  but  misery 
on  earth  and  hell  below,  that  thou  canst  come  to  with¬ 
out  labor  :  and  if  we  can  be  content  to  cast  away  such 
immoderate  and  unseasonable  pains  upon  these  earthly 
trifles,  as  to  wear  our  bodies  with  violence,  and  to  en¬ 
croach  upon  the  night  for  time  to  get  them,  what  mad¬ 
ness  shall  it  seem  in  us  not  to  afford  a  less  labor  to  that 
which  is  infinitely  better,  and  which  only  gives  worth 
and  goodness  to  the  other  !  Wherefore,  if  we  have  not 
vowed  enmity  with  ourselves,  if  we  be  not  in  love  with 
misery  and  vexation,  if  we  be  not  obstinately  careless 
of  our  own  good,  let  us  shake  off  this  unthrifty,  danger¬ 
ous,  and  desperate  negligence,  and  quicken  these  dull 
hearts  to  a  lively  and  effectual  search  of  what  only  can 
yield  them  sweet  and  abiding  contentment : — which  once 
attained,  how  shall  we  insult  over  evils  and  bid  them  do 
their  worst !  How  shall  we,  under  this  calm  and  quiet 
day,  laugh  at  the  rough  weather,  and  unsteady  motions 
of  the  world !  How  shall  heaven  and  earth  smile  upon 
us,  and  we  on  them — commanding  the  one,  aspiring  to 
the  other?  How  pleasant  shall  our  life  be,  while  nei¬ 
ther  joys  nor  sorrows  can  distemper  it  with  excess ;  yea, 
while  the  matter  of  joy  that  is  within  us,  turns  all  the 
most  sad  occurrences  into  pleasure  !  How  dear  and 
welcome  shall  our  death  be,  that  shall  but  lead  us  from 
one  heaven  to  another,  from  peace  to  glory !  Go 
now,  ye  vain  and  idle  worldlings,  and  please  yourselves 


SECTION  XXVII. 


307 


in  the  large  extent  of  your  rich  manors,  or  in  the  hom¬ 
age  of  those  whom  baseness  of  mind  hath  made  slaves  to 
your  greatness,  or  in  the  price  and  fashions  of  your  full 
wardrobe,  or  in  the  wanton  varieties  of  your  delicate 
gardens,  or  in  your  coffers  full  of  red  and  white  earth  ; 
or  if  there  be  any  other  earthly  thing,  more  alluring, 
more  precious,  enjoy  it,  possess  it,  and  let  it  possess 
you.  Let  me  have  only  my  Peace  ;  and  let  me  never 
want  it  till  I  envy  you  I 


0 


* 


) 


; 

*  1 


■ 

< 

'  • 


EPISTLES. 


CONTENTS. 


Epistle  1.  To  Mr.  Matthew  Milzcard. 

A  Discourse  of  the  pleasure  of  study  and  contemplation,  with 
the  varieties  of  scholar-like  employments;  not  without  in- 
citation  of  others  thereunto,  and  a  censure  of  their  neglect. 

Epistle  II.  To  Mr.  Samuel  Hall. 

A  Discourse  of  the  great  charge  of  the  ministerial  function  ; 
together  with  particular  directions  for  due  preparation  there¬ 
unto,  and  carriage  therein. 

Epistle  III.  To  Mr.  William  Knisht. 

Encouraging  him  to  persist  in  the  holy  calling  of  the  Min¬ 
istry  :  which  upon  conceit  of  his  insufficiency,  and  want  of 
affection,  he  seemed  inclining  to  forsake  and  change. 

Epistle  IV.  To  Lady  Mary  Denny. 

The  Description  of  a  Christian,  and  his  differences  from  the 
worldling. 

Epistle  V.  To  Mr.  Edward  Mleyne. 

A  Direction  how  to  conceive  of  God,  in  our  devotions  and 
meditations. 

Epistle  VI.  To  all  Readers. 

Rules  of  good  advice  for  our  Christian  and  civil  carnage. 


EPISTLES. 


EPISTLE  I. 

To  Mr.  Matthew  Milward. 

A  Discourse  of  the  pleasure  of  study  and  contemplation,  with 
the  varieties  of  scholar-like  employments  ;  not  without  inci¬ 
tation  of  others  thereunto,  and  a  censure  of  their  neglect. 

I  can  wonder  at  nothing  more  than  how  a  man  can  be 
idle ;  but  of  all  other,  a  scholar, — in  so  many  improve¬ 
ments  of  reason,  in  such  sweetness  of  knowledge,  in 
such  variety  of  studies,  in  such  importunity  of  thoughts. 
Other  artisans  do  but  practice  :  we  still  learn.  Others 
run  still  in  the  same  gyre,  to  weariness,  to  satiety :  our 
choice  is  infinite.  Other  labors  require  recreations :  our 
very  labor  recreates  our  sports.  We  can  never  want, 
either  somewhat  to  do,  or  somewhat  that  we  would  do. 
How  numberless  are  those  volumes  which  men  have 
written,  of  Arts,  of  Tongues  !  How  endless  is  that  vol¬ 
ume  which  God  hath  written  of  the  world — wherein 
every  creature  is  a  letter,  every  day  a  new  page  !  Who 
can  be  weary  of  either  of  these  ?  To  find  wit  in  poetry ; 
in  philosophy,  profoundness  ;  in  mathematics,  acuteness  ; 
in  history,  wonder  of  events ;  in  oratory,  sweet  elo¬ 
quence  ;  in  divinity,  supernatural  light  and  holy  devotion 
— as  so  many  rich  metals  in  their  proper  mines— whom 


312 


EPISTLE  I. 


would  it  not  ravish  with  delight  ?  After  all  these,  let 
us  but  open  our  eyes,  we  cannot  look  beside  a  lesson  in 
this  universal  book  of  our  Maker,  worth  our  study,  worth 
taking  out.  What  creature  hath  not  his  miracle  ?  What 
event  doth  not  challenge  his  observation  ?  And  if,  wea¬ 
ry  of  foreign  employment,  we  list  to  look  home  into  our¬ 
selves,  there  we  find  a  more  private  world  of  thoughts, 
which  set  us  on  work  anew,  more  busily,  not  less  profi¬ 
tably  :  now  our  silence  is  vocal,  our  solitariness  popular, 
and  we  are  shut  up  to  do  good  unto  many.  And  if 
once  we  be  cloyed  with  our  own  company,  the  door  of 
conference  is  open.  Here  interchange  of  discourse,  be¬ 
sides  pleasure,  benefits  us  ;  and  he  is  a  weak  compan¬ 
ion,  from  whom  we  return  not  wiser.  I  could  envy,  if 
I  could  believe,  that  anachoret,  who,  secluded  from  the 
world  and  pent  up  in  his  voluntary  prison-walls, 
denied  that  he  thought  the  day  long,  whiles  yet  he 
wanted  learning  to  vary  his  thoughts.  Not  to  be  cloy¬ 
ed  with  the  same  conceit,  is  difficult  above  human 
strength ;  but  to  a  man  so  furnished  with  all  sorts  of 
knowledge  that,  according  to  his  dispositions,  he  can 
change  his  studies,  I  should  wonder  that  ever  the  sun 
should  seem  to  pace  slowly.  How  many  busy  tongues 
chase  away  good  hours  in  pleasant  chat,  and  complain 
of  the  haste  of  night  !  What  ingenuous  mind  can  be 
sooner  weary  of  talking  with  learned  authors — the  most 
harmless  and  sweetest  of  companions  ?  What  an  heaven 
lives  a  scholar  in,  that  at  once,  in  one  close  room,  can 
daily  converse  with  all  the  glorious  martyrs  and  fathers  ! 
— that  can  single  out  at  pleasure,  either  sententious  Ter- 
tullian,  or  grave  Cyprian,  or  resolute  Jerome,  or  flowing 
Chrysostom,  or  divine  Ambrose,  or  devout  Bernard,  or 


EPISTLE  I. 


313 


— who  alone  is  all  these — heavenly  Augustine,  and  talk 
with  them,  and  hear  their  wise  and  holy  counsels,  verdicts,, 
resolutions  :  yea,  to  rise  higher,  with  courtly  Isaiah,  with 
learned  Paul,  with  all  their  fellow-prophets,  apostles :  yet 
more,  like  another  Moses,  with  God  himself,  in  them  both ! 
Let  the  world  contemn  us.  While  we  have  these  delights, 
we  cannot  envy  them,  we  cannot  wish  ourselves  other 
than  we  are.  Besides,  the  way  to  all  other  content¬ 
ments  is  troublesome  ;  the  only  recompense  is  in  the 
end.  To  delve  in  the  mines,  to  scorch  in  the  fire,  for 
the  getting,  for  the  fining  of  gold,  is  a  slavish  toil :  the 
comfort  is  in  the  wedge — to  the  owner,  not  the  laborers 
where  our  very  search  of  knowledge  is  delightsome. 
Study  itself  is  our  life ;  from  which  we  would  not  be 
barred  for  a  world.  How  much  sweeter,  then,  is  the 
fruit  of  study,  the  conscience  of  knowledge  !  In  compa¬ 
rison  whereof,  the  soul  that  hath  once  tasted  it,  easily 
contemns  all  human  comforts.  Go  now,  ye  worldlings,  and 
insult  over  our  paleness,  our  neediness,  our  neglect.  Ye 
could  not  be  so  jocund,  if  you  were  not  ignorant :  if  you 
did  not  want  knowledge,  you  could  not  over-look  him 
that  hath  it.  For  me,  I  am  so  far  from  emulating  you, 
that  I  profess  I  had  as  lief  be  a  brute  beast,  as  an  igno¬ 
rant  rich  man.  How  is  it,  then,  that  those  gallants 
which  have  privilege  of  blood  and  birth,  and  better  edu¬ 
cation,  do  so  scornfully  turn  off  these  most  manly,  rea¬ 
sonable,  noble  exercises  of  scholarship  ?  An  hawk 
becomes  their  fist  better  than  a  book ;  no  dog  but  is  a 
better  companion  ;  anything  or  nothing,  rather  than  what 
we  ought.  O  minds  brutishly  sensual !  Do  they  think 
that  God  made  them  for  disport? — who,  even  in  his  par¬ 
adise,  would  not  allow  pleasure  without  work.  And  if 


314 


EPISTLE  II. 


for  business,  either  of  body  or  mind.  Those  of  the 
body  are  commonly  servile,  like  itself.  The  mind,  there¬ 
fore,  the  mind  only,  that  honorable  and  divine  part,  is 
fittest  to  be  employed  of  those  which  would  reach  to  the 
highest  perfection  of  men,  and  would  be  more  than  the 
most.  And  what  work  is  there  of  the  mind,  but  the 
trade  of  a  scholar — study  ?  Let  me  therefore  fasten  this 
problem  on  our  school-gates,  and  challenge  all  comers  in 
the  defence  of  it,  that  ‘No  scholar  cannot  be  truly  noble/ 
And  if  I  make  it  not  good,  let  me  never  be  admitted 
further  than  to  the  subject  of  our  question.  Thus  we 
do  well  to  congratulate  to  ourselves  our  own  happiness. 
If  others  will  come  to  us,  it  shall  be  our  comfort,  but 
more  theirs  :  if  not,  it  is  enough  that  we  can  joy  in  our¬ 
selves,  and  in  Him  in  whom  we  are  that  we  are. 


EPISTLE  II. 

To  my  Brother ,  Mr.  Samuel  Hall. 

A  Discourse  of‘  the  great  charge  of  the  ministerial  function; 
together  with  particular  directions  for  due  preparation  there¬ 
unto,  and  carriage  therein. 

It  is  a  great  and  holy  purpose,  dear  brother,  that  you 
have  entertained,  of  serving  God  in  his  church  ;  for  what 
higher  or  more  worthy  employment  can  there  be,  than 
to  do  these  divine  duties  to  such  a  Master  and  such  a 
mother  ? — wherein  yet  I  should  little  rejoice,  if  any  ne¬ 
cessity  had  cast  you  upon  this  refuge :  for  I  hate  and 
grieve  to  think  that  any  desperate  mind  should  make 
Divinity  but  a  shift,  and  dishonor  this  mistress  by  being 


EPISTLE  II. 


315 


forsaken  of  the  world.  This  hath  been  the  drift  of  your 
education  :  to  this  you  were  born  and  dedicated  in  a  di¬ 
rect  course.  I  do  willingly  encourage  you,  but  not  with¬ 
out  many  cautions.  Enter  not  into  so  great  a  service 
without  much  foresight.  When  your  hand  is  at  the 
plow,  it  is  too  late  to  look  back.  Bethink  yourself  seri¬ 
ously  of  the  weight  of  this  charge ;  and  let  your  holy  de¬ 
sire  be  allayed  with  some  trembling.  It  is  a  foolish 
rashness  of  young  heads,  when  they  are  in  God’s  chair, 
to  wonder  how  they  came  thither,  and  to  forget  the  aw¬ 
fulness  of  that  place,  in  the  confidence  of  their  own 
strength  ;  which  is  ever  so  much  less,  as  it  is  more  es¬ 
teemed.  I  commend  not  the  wayward  excuses  of  Mo¬ 
ses,  nor  the  peremptory  unwillingness  of  Ammonius  and 
friar  Thomas,  who  maimed  themselves  that  they  might 
be  wilfully  uncapable.  Betwixt  both  these,  there  is  an 
humble  modesty  and  religious  fearfulness,  easily  to  be 
noted  in  those  whom  the  church  honors  with  the  name 
of  her  Fathers,  worthy  your  imitation  :  wherein,  yet,  you 
shall  need  no  precedents,  if  you  well  consider  what  worth 
of  parts,  what  strictness  of  carriage,  what  weight  of  offi¬ 
ces,  God  expects  in  this  vocation.  Know,  first,  that  in 
this  place  there  will  be  more  holiness  required  of  you 
than  in  the  ordinary  station  of  a  Christian  :  for  whereas 
before  you  were  but  as  a  common  line,  now  God  sets 
you  for  a  copy  of  sanctification  unto  others,  wherein  ev¬ 
ery  fault  is  both  notable  and  dangerous.  Here  is  look¬ 
ed  for,  a  settled  acquaintance  with  God,  and  experience 
both  of  the  proceedings  of  grace  and  of  the  offers  and 
repulses  of  tentations ;  which  in  vain  we  shall  hope  to 
manage  in  other  hearts,  if  we  have  not  found  in  our  own. 
To  speak  by  aim  or  rote,  of  repentance,  of  contrition,  of 


316 


EPISTLE  II. 


the  degrees  of  regeneration  and  faith,  is  both  harsh  and 
seldom  when  not  unprofitable.  We  trust  those  physi¬ 
cians  best,  which  have  tried  the  virtue  of  their  drugs,  es¬ 
teeming  not  of  those  which  have  only  borrowed  of  their 
books.  Here  will  be  expected  a  free  and  absolute  gov¬ 
ernment  of  affections,  that  you  can  so  steer  your  own 
vessel,  as  not  to  be  transported  with  fury,  with  self-love, 
with  immoderation  of  pleasures,  of  cares,  of  desires,  with 
excess  of  passions :  in  all  which,  so  must  you  demean 
yourself,  as  one  that  thinks  he  is  no  man  of  the  world, 
but  of  God  ;  as  one  too  good,  by  his  double  calling,  for 
that  which  is  either  the  felicity  or  impotency  of  beasts. 
Here  must  be  continual  and  inward  exercise  of  mortifi¬ 
cation  and  severe  Christianity,  whereby  the  heart  is  held 
in  due  awe,  and  the  weak  flames  of  the  spirit  quickened, 
the  ashes  of  our  dulness  blown  off — a  practice  necessary 
in  him  whose  devotion  must  set  many  hearts  on  fire. 

-  Here  must  be  wisdom  and  inoffensiveness  of  carriage,  as 
of  one  that  goes  ever  under  monitors,  and  that  knows  other 
men’s  indifferences  are  his  evils.  No  man  had  such 
need  to  keep  a  strict  mean.  Setting  aside  contempt? 
even  in  observation,  behold  we  are  made  a  gazing-stock 
to  the  world,  to  angels,  to  men.  The  very  sail  of  your 
estate  must  be  moderated ;  which  if  it  bear  too  high,  as 
seldom,  it  incurs  the  censure  of  profusion  and  epicu¬ 
rism  ;  if  too  low,  of  a  base  and  unseeming  earthliness. 
Your  hand  may  not  be  too  close  for  others’  need,  nor 
too  open  for  your  own  ;  your  conversation  may  not  be 
rough  and  sullen,  nor  over-familiar  and  fawning — where¬ 
of  the  one  breeds  a  conceit  of  pride  and  strangeness,  the 
other  contempt — not  loosely  merry,  not  cynically  unso¬ 
ciable;  not  contentious  in  small  injuries,  in  great,  not 


I 


EPISTLE  II.  317 

hurtf  ully  patient  to  the  church  ;  your  attire — for  whith¬ 
er  do  not  censures  reach  ? — not  youthfully  wanton,  nor 
in  these  years  affectedly  ancient,  but  grave  and  comely, 
like  the  mind,  like  the  behavior  of  the  wearer ;  your 
gesture,  like  your  habit,  neither  savoring  of  giddy  light¬ 
ness,  nor  overly  insolence,  nor  wantonness,  nor  dull  neg¬ 
lect  of  yourself,  but  such  as  may  beseem  a  mortified 
mind,  full  of  worthy  spirits  ;  your  speech,  like  your  ges¬ 
ture,  not  scurrilous,  not  detracting,  not  idle,  not  boasting, 
not  rotten,  not  peremptory,  but  honest,  mild,  fruitful,  sa¬ 
vory,  and  such  as  may  both  argue  and  work  grace  ;  your 
deliberations  mature,  your  resolutions  well-grounded,  your 
devices  sage  and  holy.  Wherein  let  me  advise  you  to 
walk  ever  in  the  beaten  road  of  the  church,  not  to  run 
out  into  single  paradoxes.  And  if  you  meet  at  any  time 
with  private  conceits  that  seem  more  probable,  suspect 
them  and  yourself ;  and  if  they  can  win  you  to  assent, 
yet  smother  them  in  your  breast,  and  do  not  dare  to  vent 
them  out,  either  by  your  hand  or  tongue,  to  trouble  the 
common  peace.  It  is  a  miserable  praise,  to  be  a  witty 
disturber.  Neither  will  it  serve  you  to  be  thus  good 
alone ;  but  if  God  shall  give  you  the  honor  of  this  estate  the 
world  will  look  you  should  be  the  grave  guide  of  a  well- 
ordered  family  :  for  this  is  proper  to  us,  that  the  vices  of 
our  charge  reflect  upon  us,  the  sins  of  others  are  our  re¬ 
proach.  If  another  man’s  children  miscarry,  the  parent 
is  pitied ;  if  a  minister’s,  censured ;  yea,  not  our  servant 
is  faulty,  without  our  blemish.  In  all  these  occasions 
— a  misery  incident  to  us  alone — our  grief  is  our  shame. 

To  descend  nearer  unto  the  sacred  affairs  of  this 
heavenly  trade :  in  a  minister,  God’s  church  is  ac¬ 
counted  both  his  house  to  dwell  in,  and  his  field  to 


I 


318  EPISTLE  II. 

work  in ;  wherein — upon  the  penalty  of  a  curse— he 
faithfully,  wisely,  diligently,  devoutly,  deals  with  God 
for  his  people ;  with  his  people,  for  and  from  God. 
Whether  he  instruct,  he  must  do  it  with  evidence  of 
the  spirit;  or  whether  he  reprove,  with  courage  and 
zeal ;  or  whether  he  exort,  with  meekness  and  yet  with 
power ;  or  whether  he  confute,  with  demonstration  of 
truth,  not  with  rage  and  personal  maliciousness,  not  with 
a  wilful  heat  of  contradiction  ;  or  whether  he  admonish, 
with  long-suffering  and  love,  without  prejudice  and  par¬ 
tiality  ;  in  a  word,  all  these  he  so  doth,  as  he  that  de¬ 
sires  nothing  but  to  honor  God  and  save  men.  His  wis¬ 
dom  must  discern  betwixt  his  sheep  and  wolves  ;  in  his 
sheep,  betwixt  the  wholesome  and  unsound ;  in  the  un¬ 
sound,  betwixt  the  weak  and  tainted ;  in  the  tainted,  be¬ 
twixt  the  natures,  qualities,  degrees,  of  the  disease  and 
infection  :  and  to  all  these  he  must  know  to  administer  a 
word  in  season.  He  hath  antidotes  for  all  tentations, 
counsels  for  all  doubts,  evictions  for  all  errors,  for  all  lan- 
guishings,  encouragements.  No  occasion,  from  any  alter¬ 
ed  estate  of  the  soul,  may  find  him  unfurnished.  He 
must  ascend  to  God’s  altar  with  much  awe,  with  sincere 
and  cheerful  devotion  ;  so  taking,  celebrating,  distribut¬ 
ing,  his  Saviour,  as  thinking  himself  at  table  in  heaven 
with  the  blessed  angels.  In  the  meantime,  as  he  wants 
not  a  thankful  regard  to  the  Master  of  the  feast,  so  not 
care  of  the  guests.  The  greatness  of  an  offender  may 
not  make  him  sacrilegiously  partial,  nor  the  obscurity 
negligent. 

I  have  said  little  of  any  of  our  duties  ;  and  of  some, 
nothing  :  yet  enough,  I  think,  to  make  you — if  not  tim¬ 
orous — careful.  Neither  would  I  have  you,  hereupon, 


EPISTLE  III. 


31$ 


to  hide  yourself  from  this  calling,  hut  to  prepare  your¬ 
self  for  it.  These  times  call  for  them  that  are  faithful ; 
and  if  they  may  spare  some  learning,  conscience  they 
cannot.  Go  on  happily.  It  argues  a  mind  Christianly 
noble,  to  be  encouraged  with  the  need  of  his  labors,  with 
the  difficulties. 


EPISTLE  III. 

To  Mr.  William  Knight. 

Encouraging  him  to  persist  in  the  holy  calling  of  the  ministry  ; 
which  upon  conceit  of  his  insufficiency,  and  want  of  affection, 
he  seemed  inclining  to  forsake  and  change. 

I  am  not  more  glad  to  hear  from  you,  than  sorry  to 
hear  of  your  discontentment :  whereof,  as  the  cause  is 
from  yourself,  so  must  the  remedy.  We  scholars  are 
the  aptest  of  all  others  to  make  ourselves  miserable  : — 
you  might  be  your  own  best  counsellor,  were  you  but  in¬ 
different  to  yourself.  If  I  could  but  cure  your  prejudice, 
your  thoughts  would  heal  you :  and,  indeed,  the  same 
hand  that  wounded  you  were  fittest  for  this  service.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  your  calling  is  honorable  :  if  you 
did  not  think  so,  you  had  not  complained.  It  is  your 
unworthiness  that  troubles  you.  Let  me  boldly  tell  you, 
I  know  you  in  this  case  better  than  yourself.  You  are 
never  the  more  unsufficient  because  you  think  so.  If 
we  will  be  rigorous,  Paul’s  question  tig  Metros  ;l  will 
appose  us  all :  but  according  to  the  gracious  indulgence 
of  Him  that  calls  things  which  are  not  as  if  they  were, 


1  ‘  Who  is  sufficient  for  these  things  ?’ — 2  Cor.  2:  16  — Ed. 


320 


EPISTLE  III. 


we  are  that  we  are  ;  yea,  that  we  ought ;  and  must  be 
thankful  for  our  anything.  There  are  none  more  fear¬ 
ful  than  the  able,  none  more  bold  than  the  unworthy. 
How  many  have  you  seen  and  heard,  of  weaker  graces 
- — your  own  heart  shall  be  the  judge — which  have  sat  with¬ 
out  paleness  or  trembling  in  that  holy  chair,  and  spoken 
as  if  the  words  had  been  their  own ;  satisfying  them¬ 
selves  if  not  the  hearers  !  And  do  you,  whose  gifts  ma¬ 
ny  have  envied,  stand  quaking  upon  the  lowest  stair  ? 
Hath  God  given  you  that  unusual  variety  of  tongues, 
skill  of  arts,  a  style  worth  emulation,  and — which  is 
worth  all — a  faithful  and  honest  heart ;  and  do  you  now 
shrink  back  and  say,  Send  by  him  by  whom  thou  shouldst 
send.  Give  God  but  what  you  have  :  he  expects  no 
more.  This  is  enough  to  honor  him  and  crown  you. 
Take  heed,  while  you  complain  of  wrant,  lest  pride 
shroud  itself  under  the  skirts  of  modesty.  How  many 
are  thankful  for  less  !  You  have  more  than  the  most ; 
yet  this  contents  you  not;  it  is  nothing  unless  you 
may  equal  the  best,  if  not  exceed :  yea,  I  fear  how 
this  may  satisfy  you,  unless  you  may  think  your¬ 
self  such  as  you  would  be.  What  is  this,  but  to  grudge 
at  the  bestower  of  graces  ?  I  tell  you  without  flattery, 
God  hath  great  gains  by  fewer  talents  ;  set  your  heart 
to  employ  these,  and  your  advantage  shall  be  more  than 
your  Master’s.  Neither  do  now  repent  you  of  the  un¬ 
advisedness  of  your  entrance.  God  called  you  to  it  up¬ 
on  an  eternal  deliberation  ;  and  meant  to  make  use  of 
your  suddenness  as  a  means  to  fetch  you  into  his  wrork, 

whom  more  leisure  would  have  found  refractorv. — Full 

•/ 

little  did  the  one  Saul  think  of  a  kingdom,  when  he  went 
to  seek  his  father’s  strays  in  the  land  of  Shalisha ;  or  the 


EPISTLE  III. 


321 


other  Saul  of  an  apostleship,  when  he  went  with  his 
commission  to  Damascus  :  God  thought  of  both,  and  ef¬ 
fected  what  they  meant  not.  Thus  hath  he  done  to 
you.  Acknowledge  this  hand  and  follow  it.  He  found 
and  gave  both  faculty  and  opportunity  to  enter  :  find 
you  but  a  will  to  proceed,  I  dare  promise  you  abun¬ 
dance  of  comfort.  How  many  of  the  ancients,  after  a 
forcible  ordination,  became  not  profitable  only,  but  fa¬ 
mous  in  the  church  !  But,  as  if  you  sought  shifts  to 
discourage  yourself,  when  you  see  you  cannot  maintain 
this  hold  of  insufficiency,  you  fly  to  alienation  of  affec¬ 
tion  ;  in  the  truth  whereof,  none  can  control  you  but 
your  own  heart:  in  the  justice  of  it,  we  both  may  and 
must.  This  plea  is  not  for  Christians  ;  we  must  affect 
what  we  ought,  in  spite  of  ourselves.  Wherefore  serves 
religion,  if  not  to  make  us  lords  of  our  own  affections  ? 
If  we  must  be  ruled  by  our  slaves,  what  good  should  we 
do  ?  Can  you  more  dislike  your  station,  than  we  all 
naturally  distaste  goodness  ?  Shall  we  neglect  the  pur¬ 
suit  of  virtue,  because  it  pleases  not ;  or  rather  displease 
and  neglect  ourselves,  till  it  may  please  us  ?  Let  me 
not  ask  whether  your  affections  be  estranged,  but  where¬ 
fore  ?  Divinity  is  a  mistress  worthy  your  service  :  all 
other  arts  are  but  drudges  to  her  alone.  Fools  may 
contemn  her,  who  cannot  judge  of  true  intellectual  beau¬ 
ty  ;  but  if  they  had  our  eyes,  they  could  not  but  be  rav¬ 
ished  with  admiration.  You  have  learned,  I  hope,  to 
contemn  their  contempt,  and  to  pity  injurious  ignorance. 
She  hath  chosen  you  as  a  worthy  client,  yea,  a  favorite  ; 
and  hath  honored  you  with  her  commands  and  her  ac¬ 
ceptations — who  but  you  would  plead  strangeness  of  af¬ 
fection  ?  How  many  thousands  sue  to  her,  and  cannot  be 
21 


322 


EPISTLE  III. 


looked  upon  !  You  are  happy  in  her  favors,  and  yet 
complain :  yea,  so  far  as  that  you  have  not  stuck  to 
think  of  a  change.  No  word  could  have  fallen  from 
you  more  unwelcome.  This  is  Satan’s  policy,  to  make 
us  out  of  love  with  our  callings,  that  our  labors  may  be 
unprofitable,  and  our  standings,  tedious.  He  knows  that 
all  changes  are  fruitless,  and  that  whiles  we  affect  to  be 
other,  we  must  needs  be  weary  of  what  we  are :  that 
there  is  no  success  in  any  endeavor,  without  pleasure  ; 
that  there  can  be  no  pleasure  where  the  mind  longs  af¬ 
ter  alterations.  If  you  espy  not  this  craft  of  the  com¬ 
mon  enemy,  you  are  not  acquainted  with  yourself.  Un¬ 
der  what  form  soever  it  come,  repel  it,  and  abhor  the 
first  motion  of  it,  as  you  love  your  peace,  as  you  hope 
for  your  reward.  It  is  the  misery  of  the  most  men  that 
they  cannot  see  when  they  are  happy  ;  and  whiles  they 
see  but  the  outside  of  others’  conditions,  prefer  that 
which  their  experience  teaches  them  afterwards  to  con¬ 
demn,  not  without  loss  and  tears.  Far  be  this  unsta¬ 
bleness  from  you,  which  have  been  so  long  taught  of 
God  !  All  vocations  have  their  inconveniences  ;  which 
if  they  cannot  be  avoided,  must  be  digested.  The  more 
difficulties,  the  greater  glory.  Stand  fast,  therefore,  and 
resolve  that  this  calling  is  the  best,  both  in  itself  and 
for  you  :  and  know  that  it  cannot  stand  with  your  Chris¬ 
tian  courage,  to  run  away  from  these  incident  evils,  but 
to  encounter  them.  Your  hand  is  at  the  plough  :  if  you 
meet  with  some  tough  clods  that  will  not  easily  yield  to 
the  share,  lay  on  more  strength  rather  :  seek  not  reme¬ 
dy  in  your  feet,  by  flight,  but  in  your  hands,  by  a  con¬ 
stant  endeavor.  Away  with  this  weak  timorousness 
and  wrongful  humility  !  Be  cheerful  and  courageous  in 


EPISTLE IY. 


323 


this  great  work  of  God — the  end  shall  be  glorious,  your¬ 
self  happy,  and  many  in  you  1 


EPISTLE  IV. 

To  Lady  Mary  Denny . 

The  Description  of  a  Christian  and  his  differences  from  the 

worldlinor. 

MADAM : 

It  is  true  that  worldly  eyes  can  see  no  difference  be¬ 
twixt  a  Christian  and  another  man  :  the  outside  of  both 
is  made  of  one  clay  and  cast  in  one  mould,  both  are  in¬ 
spired  with  one  common  breath.  Outward  events  dis¬ 
tinguish  them  not :  those,  God  never  made  for  eviden¬ 
ces  of  love  or  hatred.  So  the  senses  can  perceive  no 
difference  betwixt  the  reasonable  soul  and  that  which  in¬ 
forms  the  beast ;  yet  the  soul  knows  there  is  much  more 
than  betwixt  their  bodies.  The  same 'holds  in  this. 
Faith  sees  more  inward  difference  than  the  eye  sees  out¬ 
ward  resemblance.  This  point  is  not  more  high  than 
material :  which,  that  it  may  appear,  let  me  show  what 
it  is  to  be  a  Christian.  You  that  have  felt  it  can  second 
with  your  experience,  and  supply  the  defects  of  my 
discourse.  He  is  the  living  temple  of  the  living  God, 
where  the  Deity  is  both  resident  and  worshipped.  The 
highest  thing  in  a  man  is  his  own  spirit ;  but  in  a  Chris¬ 
tian,  the  spirit  of  God,  which  is  the  God  of  spirits.  No 
grace  is  wanting  in  him ;  and  those  which  there  are, 
want  not  stirring  up.  Both  his  heart  and  his  hands  are 
clean.  All  his  outward  purity  flows  from  within  :  nei- 


324 


EPISTLE IY. 


ther  doth  he  frame  his  soul  to  counterfeit  good  actions  : 
but  out  of  his  holy  disposition,  commands  and  produces 
them  in  the  sight  of  God.  Let  us  begin  with  his  begin¬ 
ning,  and  fetch  the  Christian  out  of  his  nature,  as  an¬ 
other  Abraham  from  his  Chaldea,  whiles  the  worldling 
lives  and  dies  in  nature,  out  of  God.  The  true  convert, 
therefore,  after  his  wild  and  secure  courses,  puts  him¬ 
self — through  the  motions  of  God’s  spirit — to  school  un¬ 
to  the  law  :  there  he  learns  what  he  should  have  done, 
what  he  could  not  do,  what  he  hath  done,  what  he  hath 
deserved.  These  lessons  cost  him  many  a  stripe  and 
many  a  tear,  and  not  more  grief  than  terror :  for  this 
sharp  master  makes  him  feel  what  sin  is,  and  what  hell 
is,  and  in  regard  of  both,  what  himself  is.  When  he 
hath  well  smarted  under  the  whip  of  this  severe  usher, 
and  is  made  vile  enough  in  himself,  then  is  he  led  up 
into  the  higher  school  of  Christ,  and  there  taught  the 
comfortable  lessons  of  grace.  There  he  learns  what  be¬ 
longs  to  a  Saviour,  what  one  he  is,  what  he  hath  done, 
and  for  whom,  how  he  became  ours,  we  his :  and 
now  finding  himself  in  a  true  state  of  danger,  of  humili¬ 
ty,  of  need,  of  desire,  of  fitness  for  Christ,  he  brings 
home  to  himself  all  that  he  learns,  and  what  he  knows, 
he  applies.  His  former  tutor  he  feared  ;  this,  he  loveth  : 
that  showed  him  his  wounds,  yea,  made  them ;  this 
binds  and  heals  them  :  that  killed  him  ;  this  shows  him 
life,  and  leads  him  to  it.  Now  at  once  he  hates  him¬ 
self,  defies  Satan,  trusts  to  Christ,  makes  account  both 
of  pardon  and  glory.  This  is  his  most  precious  faith, 
whereby  he  appropriates,  yea,  engrosses  Christ  Jesus  to 
himself;  whence  he  is  justified  from  his  sins,  purified 
from  his  corruptions,  established  in  his  resolutions,  com- 


EPISTLE  IY. 


325 


forted  in  his  doubts,  defended  against  temptations,  over¬ 
comes  all  his  enemies.  Which  virtue,  as  it  is  most  em¬ 
ployed  and  most  opposed,  so  carries  the  most  care  from 
the  Christian  heart,  that  it  be  sound,  lively,  growing. 
Sound : — not  rotten,  not  hollow,  not  presumptuous  : 
sound  in  the  act ;  not  a  superficial  conceit,  but  a  true, 
deep,  and  sensible  apprehension — an  apprehension,  not 
of  the  brain  but  of  the  heart,  and  of  the  heart  not  ap¬ 
proving  or  assenting,  but  trusting  and  reposing.  Sound 
in  the  object — none  but  Christ.  He  knows  that  no 
friendship  in  heaven  can  do  him  good  without  this. 
The  angels  cannot,  God  will  not — ‘  Ye  believe  in  the 
Father,  believe  also  in  me.’  Lively : — for  it  cannot 
give  life,  unless  it  have  life  :  the  faith  that  is  not  fruit¬ 
ful  is  dead.  The  fruits  of  faith  are  good  works  ;  wheth¬ 
er  inward,  within  the  roof  of  the  heart,  as  love,  awe,  sor¬ 
row,  piety,  zeal,  joy  and  the  rest ;  or  outward,  towards 
God  or  our  brethren  :  obedience  and  service  to  the  one  ; 
to  the  other,  relief  and  beneficence.  These  he  bears  in 
his  time — sometimes  all,  but  always  some.  Growing  : — 
true  faith  cannot  stand  still ;  but  as  it  is  fruitful  in  works, 
so  it  increaseth  in  degrees  ;  from  a  little  seed  it  proves  a 
large  plant,  reaching  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  from 
one  heaven  to  another — every  shower  and  every  sun 
adds  something  to  it. 

Neither  is  this  grace  ever  solitary,  but  always  attend¬ 
ed  royally :  for  he  that  believes  what  a  Saviour  he  hath, 
cannot  but  love  him ;  and  he  that  loves  him,  cannot  but 
hate  whatsoever  may  displease  him ;  cannot  but  rejoice 
in  him,  and  hope  to  enjoy  him,  and  desire  to  enjoy  his 
hope,  and  contemn  all  those  vanities  which  he  once  de¬ 
sired  and  enjoyed.  His  mind  now  scorneth  to  grovel 


326 


EPISTLE  IV. 


upon  earth,  but  soareth  up  to  the  things  above,  where 
Christ  sits  at  the  right  hand  of  God — and  after  it  hath 
seen  what  is  done  in  heaven,  looks  strangely  upon  all 
worldly  things.  He  dare  trust  his  faith  above  his  reason 
and  sense,  and  hath  learned  to  wean  his  appetite  from 
craving  much.  He  stands  in  awe  of  his  own  conscience 
and  dare  no  more  offend  it,  than  not  displease  himself. 
He  fears  not  his  enemies,  yet  neglects  them  not — equal¬ 
ly  avoiding  security  and  timorousness.  He  sees  him 
that  is  invisible,  and  walks  with  him  awfully,  familiarly. 
He  knows  what  he  is  born  to,  and  therefore  digests  the 
miseries  of  his  wardship  with  patience :  he  finds  more 
comfort  in  his  afflictions,  than  any  worldling  in  pleas¬ 
ures.  And  as  he  hath  these  graces  to  comfort  him  with¬ 
in,  so  hath  he  the  angels  to  attend  him  without :  spirits 
better  than  his  own,  more  powerful,  more  glorious. 
These  bear  him  in  their  arms,  wake  by  his  bed,  keep 
his  soul  while  he  hath  it,  and  receive  it  when  it  leaves 
him.  There  are  some  present  differences  ;  the  greatest 
are  future,  which  could  not  be  so  great  if  themselves 
were  not  witnesses — no  less  than  betwixt  heaven  and 
hell,  torment  and  glory,  an  incorruptible  crown  and  fire 
unquenchable.  Whether  infidels  believe  these  things  or 
no,  we  know  them :  so  shall  they,  but  too  late.  What 
remains,  but  that  we  applaud  ourselves  in  this  happiness, 
and  walk  on  cheerily  in  this  heavenly  profession,  ac¬ 
knowledging  that  God  could  not  do  more  for  us,  and 
that  we  cannot  do  enough  for  him?  Let  others  boast — 
as  your  ladyship  might,  with  others — of  ancient  and  no¬ 
ble  houses,  large  patrimonies  or  dowries,  honorable  com¬ 
mands  ;  others,  of  famous  names,  high  and  envied  hon¬ 
ors,  or  the  favors  of  the  greatest ;  others,  of  valor  or 


EPISTLE  V. 


327 


beauty ;  or  some  perhaps  of  eminent  learning  and  wit — - 
it  shall  be  our  pride  that  we  are  Christians. 


EPISTLE  V. 

To  Mr.  Edward  Alleyne. 

A  direction  how  to  conceive  of  God  in  our  devotions  and  medi¬ 
tations. 

You  have  chosen  and  judged  well.  How  to  conceive 
of  the  Deity  in  our  prayers,  in  our  meditations,  is  both 
the  deepest  point  of  all  Christianity,  and  the  most  neces¬ 
sary  :  so  deep,  that  if  we  wade  into  it,  we  may  easily 
drown,  never  find  the  bottom  :  so  necessary,  that  with¬ 
out  it,  ourselves,  our  services,  are  profane,  irreligious. 
We  are  all  born  idolaters,  naturally  prone  to  fashion 
God  to  some  form  of  our  own,  whether  of  an  human 
body  or  of  an  admirable  light,  or  if  our  mind  have  any 
other  more  likely  and  pleasing  image.  First,  then,  away 
with  all  these  wicked  thoughts,  these  gross  devotions ; 
and,  with  Jacob,  bury  all  your  strange  gods  under  the 
oak  of  Shechem,  ere  you  offer  to  set  up  God’s  altar  at 
Bethel ;  and  without  all  mental  representations,  conceive 
of  your  God  purely,  simply,  spiritually ;  as  of  an  abso¬ 
lute  Being,  without  form,  without  matter,  without  com¬ 
position — yea,  an  infinite,  without  all  limit  of  thoughts. 
Let  your  heart  adore  a  spiritual  majesty  which  it  cannot 
comprehend,  yet  knows  to  be,  and — as  it  were — lose  it¬ 
self  in  his  infiniteness.  Think  of  him  as  not  to  be 
thought  of;  as  one  whose  wisdom  is  his  justice,  whose 
justice  is  his  power,  whose  power  is  his  mercy ;  and 


328 


EPISTLE  Y. 


whose  wisdom,  justice,  power,  mercy,  is  liimself;  as 
without  quality,  good;  great  without  quantity;  ever¬ 
lasting  without  time  ;  present  everywhere  without  place; 
containing  all  things  without  extent :  and  when  your 
thoughts  are  come' to  the  highest,  stay  there,  and  be  con¬ 
tent  to  wonder  in  silence — and  if  you  cannot  reach  to 
conceive  of  him  as  he  is,  yet  take  heed  you  conceive  not 
of  him  as  he  is  not.  Neither  will  it  suffice  your  Chris¬ 
tian  mind  to  have  this  awful  and  confused  apprehension 
of  the  Deity,  without  a  more  special  and  inward  conceit 
of  three  in  this  one ;  three  persons  in  this  one  essence, 
not  divided,  but  distinguished ;  and  not  more  mingled 
than  divided.  There  is  nothing  wherein  the  want  of 
words  can  wrong  and  grieve  us,  but  in  this.  Here 
alone,  as  we  can  adore  and  not  conceive,  so  we  can  con¬ 
ceive  and  not  utter ;  yea,  utter  ourselves  and  not  be 
conceived.  Yet,  as  we  may,  think  here  of  one  sub¬ 
stance  in  three  subsistences  ;  one  essence  in  three  rela¬ 
tions  ;  one  Jehovah,  begetting,  begotten,  proceeding ; 
Father,  Son,  Spirit;  yet  so  as  the  Son  is  no  other  thing 
from  the  Father,  but  another  person  ;  or  the  Spirit  from 
the  Son.  Let  your  thoughts  here  walk  warily,  the  path 
is  narrow :  the  conceit  either  of  three  substances,  or  but 
one  subsistence,  is  damnable.  Let  me  lead  you  yet 
higher  and  further  in  this  intricate  way  towards  the 
throne  of  grace.  All  this  will  not  avail  you,  if  you  take 
not  your  Mediator  with  you  :  if  you  apprehend  not  a 
true  manhood  gloriously  united  to  the  Godhead,  without 
change  of  either  nature,  without  mixture  of  both  ;  whose 
presence,  whose  merits,  must  give  passage,  acceptance, 
vigor,  to  your  prayers. 

Here  must  be  therefore,  as  you  see,  thoughts  holily 


EPISTLE  Y. 


329 


mixed  :  of  a  Godhead  and  humanity ;  one  person  in  two 
natures ;  of  the  same  Deity  in  diverse  persons  and  one 
nature — wherein,  if  ever,  heavenly  wisdom  must  bestir 
itself  in  directing  us,  so  to  sever  these  apprehensions, 
that  none  be  neglected ;  so  to  conjoin  them,  that  they  be 
not  confounded.  O  the  depth  of  Divine  mysteries,  more 
than  can  be  wondered  at !  O  the  necessity  of  this  high 
knowledge,  which  who  attains  not,  may  babble,  but  pray- 
eth  not !  Still  you  doubt,  and  ask  if  you  may  not  di¬ 
rect  your  prayers  to  one  person  of  three.  Why  not  ? 
Safely  and  with  comfort.  What  need  we  fear,  while  we 
have  our  Saviour  for  our  pattern? — ‘  O,  my  Father,  if 
possible,  let  this  cup  pass !’  And  Paul  everywhere 
both  in  thanks  and  requests,  but  with  due  care  of  wor¬ 
shipping  all  in  one.  Exclude  the  other  while  you  fix 
your  heart  upon  one,  your  prayer  is  sin  ; — retain  all  and 
mention  one,  you  offend  not.  None  of  them  doth  aught 
for  us  without  all.  It  is  a  true  rule  of  Divines — All 
their  external  works  are  common  :  to  solicit  one,  there¬ 
fore,  and  not  all,  were  injurious.  And  if  you  stay  your 
thoughts  upon  the  sacred  humanity  of  Christ,  with  inse¬ 
parable  adoration  of  the  Godhead  united,  and  thence 
climb  up  to  the  holy  conceit  of  that  blessed  and  dreadful 
Trinity,  I  dare  not  censure,  1  dare  not  but  commend 
your  divine  method.  Thus  should  Christians  ascend 
from  earth  to  heaven,  from  one  heaven  to  another. 

If  I  have  given  your  devotions  any  light,  it  is  well ; 
the  least  glimpse  of  this  knowledge  is  worth  all  the  full 
gleams  of  human  and  earthly  skill.  But  I  mistake,  if 
your  own  heart,  wrought  upon  with  serious  meditations, 
under  that  Spirit  of  illumination,  will  not  prove  your  best 
master.  After  this  weak  direction,  study  to  conceive 


330 


EPISTLE  Y I. 


aright,  that  you  may  pray  aright ;  and  pray  that  you 
may  conceive  ;  and  meditate,  that  you  may  do  both  : — 
and  the  God  of  heaven  direct  you,  enable  you,  that  you 
may  do  all ! 


EPISTLE  VI. 

To  all  Readers. 

Rules  of  good  advice  for  our  Christian  and  civil  carriage. 

I  grant,  brevity — where  it  is  neither  obscure  nor  de¬ 
fective — is  very  pleasing  even  to  the  daintiest  judgments. 
No  marvel,  therefore,  if  most  men  desire  much  good 
counsel  in  a  narrow  room  ;  as  some  affect  to  have  great 
personages  drawn  in  little  tablets,  or  as  we  see  worlds  of 
countries  described  in  the  compass  of  small  maps.  Nei¬ 
ther  do  I  unwillingly  yield  to  follow  them  ;  for  both  the 
powers  of  good  advice  are  the  stronger  when  they  are 
thus  united,  and  brevity  makes  counsel  more  portable 
for  memory  and  readier  for  use. 

Take  these  therefore  for  more ;  which  as  I  would 
fain  practice,  so  am  I  willing  to  commend.  Let  us  be¬ 
gin  with  him  who  is  the  first  and  last.  Inform  yourself 
aright  concerning  God ;  without  whom  in  vain  do  we 
know  all  things.  Be  acquainted  with  that  Saviour  of 
yours,  which  paid  so  much  for  you  on  earth,  and  now 
sues  for  you  in  heaven ;  without  whom,  we  have  nothing 
to  do  with  God,  nor  he  with  us.  Adore  him  in  your 
thoughts,  trust  him  with  yourself.  Renew  your  sight  of 
him  every  day,  and  his  of  you.  Overlook  these  earthly 
things  ;  and  when  you  do  at  any  time  cast  your  eyes  upon 


EPISTLE  VI. 


331 


heaven  think,  ‘  There  dwells  my  Saviour,  there  I  shall  be/ 

'  Call  yourself  to  often  reckonings ;  cast  up  your  debts, 
payments,  graces,  wants,  expenses,  employments.  Yield 
not  to  think  your  set  devotions  troublesome .  Take  not 
easy  denials  from  yourself ;  yea,  give  peremptory  denials 
to  yourself.  He  can  never  be  good,  that  flatters  him¬ 
self  :  hold  nature  to  her  allowance,  and  let  your  will 
stand  at  courtesy :  happy  is  that  man  which  hath  ob¬ 
tained  to  be  the  master  of  his  own  heart.  Think  all 
God’s  outward  favors  and  provisions  the  best  for  you ; 
your  own  abilities  and  actions,  the  meanest.  Suffer  not 
your  mind  to  be  either  a  drudge  or  a  wanton  :  exercise 
it  ever,  but  over-lay  it  not.  In  all  your  businesses,  look 
through  the  world  at  God  :  whatsoever  is  your  level,  let 
him  be  your  scope.  Every  day,  take  a  view  of  your 
last ;  and  think,  ‘  Either  it  is  this  or  may  be.’  Offer  not  |,j 
yourself  either  to  honor  or  labor ;  let  them  both  seek "  ' 
you  :  care  you  only  to  be  worthy,  and  you  cannot  hide 
you  from  God.  So  frame  yourself  to  the  time  and  com¬ 
pany,  that  you  may  neither  serve  it,  nor  sullenly  neglect 
it ;  and  yield  so  far  as  you  may  neither  betray  good¬ 
ness  nor  countenance  evil.  Let  your  words  be  few  and 
digested  :  it  is  a  shame  for  the  tongue  to  cry  the  heart 
mercy  ;  much  more  to  cast  itself  upon  the  uncertain  par¬ 
don  of  others’  ears.  There  are  but  two  things  which  a 
Christian  is  charged  to  buy  and  not  to  sell — Time  and 
Truth — both  so  precious  that  we  must  purchase  them  at 
any  rate.  So  use  your  friends,  as  those  which  should  \  >  \ 
be  perpetual,  may  be  changeable :  while  you  are  within  ' 
yourself,  there  is  no  danger  ;  but  thoughts  once  uttered,  1 1 
must  stand  to  hazard.  Do  not  hear  from  yourself,  what 
you  would  be  loth  to  hear  from  others.  In  all  good 


332 


EPISTLE  VI. 


things,  give  your  eye  and  ear  the  full  scope,  for  they  let 
into  the  mind  :  restrain  the  tongue,  for  it  is  a  spender.  * 
Few  men  have  repented  them  of  silence.  In  all  seri¬ 
ous  matters;  take  counsel  of  days,  and  nights,  and 
friends,  and  let  leisure  ripen  your  purposes ;  neither 
hope  to  gain  aught  by  suddenness.  The  first  thoughts 
may  be  confident,  the  second  are  wiser.  Serve  hones¬ 
ty  ever,  though  without  apparent  wages :  she  will  pay 
sure,  if  slow.  As  in  apparel,  so  in  actions,  know  not 
what  is  good,  but  what  becomes  you — how  many  war¬ 
rantable  acts  have  misshapen  the  authors!  Excuse 
not  your  own  ill,  aggravate  not  others’ :  and  if  you  love 
peace,  avoid  censures,  comparisons,  contradictions. 
Out  of  good  men  choose  acquaintance  ;  of  acquaintance, 
friends ;  of  friends,  familiars  :  after  probation,  admit 
them ;  and  after  admittance,  change  them  not — age  com- 
mendeth  friendship.  Do  not  always  your  best:  it  is 
neither  wise  nor  safe,  for  a  man  ever  to  stand  upon  the 
top  of  his  strength.  If  you  would  be  above  the  expec- 
tation  of  others,  be  ever  below  yourself.  Expend  after 
i  your  purse,  not  after  your  mind.  Take  not  where  you 
: '  may  deny,  except  upon  conscience  of  desert,  or  hope  to 
requite.  Either  frequent  suits  or  complaints  are  wea¬ 
risome  to  any  friend :  rather  smother  your  griefs  and 
wants  as  you  may,  than  be  either  querulous  or  importu¬ 
nate.  Let  not  your  face  belie  your  heart,  nor  always 
tell  tales  out  of  it :  he  is  fit  to  live  amongst  friends  or 
enemies,  that  can  be  ingenuously  close.  Give  freely  : 
sell  thriftily.  Change  seldom  your  place ;  never  your 
state :  either  amend  inconveniences  or  swallow  them, 
rather  than  you  should  run  from  yourself  to  avoid  them. 

In  all  your  reckonings  for  the  world,  cast  up  some 


EPISTLE  Y I. 


333 


crosses  that  appear  not ;  either  those  will  come,  or  may. 
Let  your  suspicions  be  charitable,  your  trust  fearful, 
your  censures  sure.  Give  way  to  the  anger  of  the 
great :  the  thunder  and  cannon  will  abide  no  fence.  As 
in  throngs  we  are  afraid  of  loss,  so  while  the  world 
comes  upon  you,  look  well  to  your  soul :  there  is  more 
danger  in  good  than  in  evil. 

I  fear  the  number  of  these  my  rules,  for  precepts  are 
wont,  as  nails,  to  drive  out  one  another.  But  these  I 
intended  to  scatter  amongst  many,  and  I  was  loth  that 
any  guest  should  complain  of  a  niggardly  hand. — Dainty 
dishes  are  wont  to  be  sparingly  served  out ;  homely 
ones  supply  in  their  bigness,  what  they  want  in  their 
worth. 


END. 


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